New Fronts
by Jlocked
Summary: Sequel to Between Frontlines. As John is settling back into civilian life, he makes a temporary arrangement with Sherlock to stay over at his place. Being dragged along to cases, he gets to know the detective quite well. Sherlock has recovered from his addiction and time with Moran. Perhaps a little too well? Another collaboration with The Lady of Purpletown. (Updated Fridays)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a solution for just a few days. Despite Sherlock's help in the search for flats, they hadn't found anything suitable that John could afford before he could leave the hospital. In his own pompous way, Sherlock had suggested that he could stay with him for the time it took them to find a place for John, and John had accepted gratefully, glad that he didn't need to spend money on a hotel. Going to Harry hadn't been an option, as he had still not spoken to her after their row, and it felt ridiculous to decline the offer after Sherlock had come to visit John almost every day (the only exception was when he had been on an extremely juicy murder case) and they had gotten comfortable with each other's presence. Still, John had felt a little awkward when they had arrived at the flat. It wasn't so much the poison on the kitchen table, the body parts in the fridge or the mess of books and petri dishes. It was just as if he couldn't remember living outside a hospital or war zone, and simply taking a seat in a soft chair with a cup of tea made him feel awkward and itchy, almost nervous.

Fortunately, they hadn't been sat down for long before a grey-haired man, that Sherlock addressed as Lestrade and John only knew from the papers of the last few days, rushed in with news about serial suicides.

It had become a day of running around far too much for someone who had only just healed from a severe war wound, giggling at inappropriate moments and John shooting a man to, maybe, save Sherlock's life.

And when they next returned to the flat, John had felt at ease. At home. He was back on the battlefield.

Of course, that little action of killing a cabbie had caught Mycroft's attention. It turned out that it was almost impossible to get Sherlock to do some decent shopping, so the next day, John got on his way. And was kidnapped. He had been prepared after long emails and Skype chats with Sherlock complaining about his brother's meddling, and the fact that Mycroft hadn't approved of Sherlock's contact with him in the first place. In only slightly more polite terms, he told Mycroft to stuff it at his offer to make John spy on the detective for money. Back in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's reaction to the events made John chuckle, and then he was dragged along to another crime scene and the days had become a blur.

It was more than a week later when things finally became calm enough to sit down and look for flats again. Sherlock lay on the sofa, moaning that he was bored, but even then it was nice to have company. John had started to learn by now when it was worthwhile to listen to the detective and when he could simply ignore his voice.

Yet after a while, he got distracted from his laptop. Sherlock had stopped whining and was reading something with a very uninterested expression on his face, but now the inactivity had begun creeping into John's mind too, stirring thoughts he would rather have kept below the surface.

Mary. Moran's victims in Afghanistan. The fact that if he had told Mary to stay out of that basement, she would still have been alive. That if he hadn't pulled her into the bullet's path, she would have had a chance. It were all impossibilities, there was nothing he could change about what had happened. Even if he could go back, Mary would never have allowed him to go into the basement on his own, so that Moran would only have come after him. And in a twisted way, their friendship would never have grown as strong without sharing the experience of that horrible discovery. But she would have been alive. If he had known what would happen on the night she died, he would have ordered her to stay behind and get more rest, so she wouldn't be in the jeep Moran attacked. He could have saved the two other men if he had just gone on his own. Of course he couldn't have known, and there was no way to go back in time. But if he could, he would.

The worst thing was that there was still no trace of Moran. No trace of a chance to have revenge. The witness Sherlock had set his hopes on, Jane Levington, had never been found again. That was slightly worrying, but somehow Sherlock seemed confident that she was alright and had simply found a good way to hide. And after everything Moran had done to Sherlock, they didn't really need her anymore. They just needed to find Moran.

The problem was that there was no way they would get any help. After all, Mycroft wouldn't allow Sherlock to get in touch with the colonel again after everything that had happened, and in a way, that reassured John too. But as the two Holmes brothers wouldn't help each other, nothing really happened to the case. The police wouldn't let Sherlock in on it. Maybe Moran was even making other victims somewhere, terrorising them like he had done to Mary and Miller and all those others - and nothing was done about it. At least Miller had made it through his injuries. He was now invalided home, just like John, and as expected they hadn't gotten in touch.

John sighed, trying to focus on a description of a flat, but it was no use.

Sherlock groaned in frustration as he sat up and ruffled his hair.

"I should get a job," John mumbled. "There's no way I'm going to live in something like that." He waved at his screen.

Sherlock frowned and looked over at him. Then he shrugged. "It's a fake anyway," he said. "The guy who made the ad will accept deposits from as many hopeful people as he can and then take the money and run before someone realises he does not own the flat and the building is condemned."

"Oh. In that case he could have tried to make it a little more attractive," John said, closing the window and turning away from his laptop.

"No, John," Sherlock said, smiling at him. "Overselling it would have made people suspicious. He's only looking for those, desperate enough to not be careful."

"Yeah, well, I'm getting pretty desperate and even I wouldn't want to go for it," John shrugged, getting up and stretching.

"Even if you were staying at a hotel, eating up your limited funds day by day? Or with a troublesome family member, the atmosphere growing increasingly toxic? Would you still not be interested?" Sherlock observed him as he spoke.

"Is this your subtle way of saying I should get a move on and get out of here?" John asked, smiling a little.

Sherlock paused, looking almost perplexed. "No..." he said. "I was actually saying that you are not in such a rush as having to take anything you can find. You have not posed any kind of inconvenience. Yet."

John chuckled. "Thanks. I'll try not to let that happen, though. But I really need a job if I don't want to end up in a dump."

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose so," he said. He was headed for the kitchen when suddenly his phone, that was still on the table by the sofa, buzzed. He spun around and squinted at it, then launched himself towards it.

"Yes!" he exclaimed as he read the text.

John smiled. "A case?"

"Murder!" Sherlock said, as he ran towards his bedroom. "A really bloody one."

John shook his head at his enthusiasm, though he was still smiling.

A moment later, the detective returned, buttoning a fresh shirt, his trousers still undone and sliding a little off his hips as he grinned at John. "Let's go," he said eagerly.

"Are you sure you want me to come along?" John asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's not like I can be much help to you. Maybe I should use the time to look at some job ads."

Sherlock frowned. "I... I suppose so. But I was kind of hoping you could come. You being a doctor and all. There'll be lots of blood. It's really quite ghastly."

For a moment, John's gaze shifted between his jacket and his laptop. "Yeah, alright, I guess it can wait for a few hours." He stepped towards the door and shrugged on his jacket.

…

"Sherlock..." John took a step back, almost bumping into the doorpost. A gruesome crime scene, okay. This? Very much not okay.

The whole floor was splattered with blood. The remains of the woman's body lay in the hall - all over the hall.

Cautiously, adjusting his protective suit, he went closer to the body and took a steadying breath, immediately regretting it as the smell hit him.

He looked up at Sherlock, who nodded.

"Okay..." The young woman lay on her back, her stomach ripped open and bloody. The vital organs lay spread around it; liver, lungs, it was all there. He kneeled to study a small bit. "It's like there are... tooth marks," he said softly. He looked over at the other, similar bits, spread around. "It's her heart. They ripped up her heart." He swallowed difficultly, giving Sherlock an almost pleading look.

Sherlock nodded, smiling a little. "Yes. So it would seem. I wonder what he did with the eyes."

"Yes. He... clawed them out, it seems." John stood up again, looking very uncomfortable. "Tell me this isn't _normal_ to you, Sherlock."

"I have never seen anything like this," Lestrade said, shaking his head and looking pale. "Are you sure the one who did this was even human?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock said, walking over to a small bloody pile and crouching down to examine it. "We obviously have a werewolf loose in London. Or possibly an expatriate wendigo."

"I meant that it could have been a wild animal," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Who does this?"

John shook his head. "At first sight, it seems like this was really caused by human teeth and fingers."

"So at least we have traces of their DNA, right?" Lestrade said.

"Probably," Sherlock said. "But if this... creature... had killed before and therefore was already in the system, don't you think we'd have heard about it?"

"Maybe... it... didn't let itself go like that before," John said.

Sherlock sort of nodded, then froze as he stared at the mutilated body. Then he turned to Lestrade. "Have you identified her yet?" he asked, sounding slightly agitated.

"Not yet," Lestrade said. "I was going to ask if you had any clues to her identity."

"Maybe," Sherlock said. Without another word, he turned and stormed out.

"Sherlock?" John called, but the detective had already run down the stairs and Donovan gave him a look that very clearly said "told you so". He rolled his eyes and turned back to Lestrade.

"What's he on to?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

"No idea," John shrugged.

"Right," Lestrade said, waving his arm so John would get out of the way. "Time to get the forensics in and clean up this mess."

As there was nothing left for John to do, he finally decided to return to the flat, hoping that Sherlock would be back there too. Yet he found the flat empty and Sherlock didn't answer his texts. With a sigh, he took his laptop and started looking at the job ads.

…

Once John finally managed to focus, it all went rather quickly. The hospital had been in urgent need of a doctor, and the next morning he was having an interview. Afterwards he felt rather confident that he had got the job, and they would let him know soon. Only when he was back at the flat, did he start to feel worried again. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the crime scene. Before John had temporarily moved in with him, Sherlock had warned him that sometimes he didn't talk for days on end, and their first case together had already shown John that he sometimes simply disappeared. But so far, he had always returned after a few hours. Now it had been almost 24 hours and John started to get worried. And it would have been nice to share the good news about his job with someone. A small voice in the back of his head told him that that kind of news was perhaps a good start of a conversation with Harry, but he still didn't feel ready to contact her. He grabbed his phone and called Sherlock, but apparently the detective had turned off his phone or perhaps the battery had run out by now.

In the evening, John began seriously considering whether he should contact Mycroft. But on the other hand, that was exactly the sort of spying the elder Holmes had asked for. Sherlock wouldn't forgive him if he walked in five minutes after John had finished a call with Mycroft, and John wasn't exactly looking forward to another chat with the British government either. Maybe that Scotland Yard inspector then. He seemed to work with Sherlock more often, so there was a chance he'd know where he was off to, and he had saved his number just in case.

Yet it turned out that Lestrade had no idea either, and that he was stuck on the case without Sherlock's help, so he asked John to kick Sherlock his bloody way as soon as he saw him. John was starting to like that man. Yet he also heard a hint of worry in Lestrade's voice, and he was rather convinced that he would contact Mycroft after all. Maybe it was for the best. It had become clear enough that Sherlock led a dangerous life and that someone needed to keep an eye on him. Perhaps Sherlock had even realised that himself. It might have been the reason for inviting John to stay as long as he wanted.

As Sherlock still hadn't given any sign of life the next morning, John began to get increasingly frustrated. Either the man really had done something incredibly stupid again, or he just didn't care that people might worry about him.

Then, in the late afternoon, there was a sound downstairs. A kind of thud, followed by a grunt.

John frowned and got up to stand by the door, ready to attack whoever tried to come in. Then the door opened and he took a step back in shock. If he hadn't seen this side of Sherlock before on Skype, he wouldn't immediately have recognised him.

"What on _earth_ have you been doing?"

"Working," Sherlock slurred, staggering inside. As he passed, a powerful stench of sweat, beer and cigarettes assailed John's sense of smell. It almost made his eyes water.

"Working," John repeated. "So _that_'s what you mean when you say that the work is the most important thing to you. And there I thought you meant you needed the brain activity."

Sherlock glared at him. "I _was _working. I have been checking in with Moran's old network. To see if he had resurfaced. Or if there was any news about his boss."

John stared at him, silent for a long moment. "You were looking for Moran on your own? After all this? Are you crazy?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore this as he headed for the kitchen. "Do you remember what I told you about Moran's boss?" he asked as he got a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Sherlock, I don't care. Right now I just don't care about Moran's boss. You were away for two days. No one knew where you were. And now you come in, drunk and smelling, and act like nothing happened."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Think, John. Think. What did I tell you about Moran's boss? About his methods?"

John sighed. "Right. Just ignore me. Why not? I'm only your friend."

Sherlock groaned with frustration. "Never mind," he said and pushed past John, heading for the bathroom.

"No." John grabbed his arm and looked up at him. "You can't go on like this. On your own, keeping everything hidden. I want to help, but you'll have to trust me. We've seen where doing everything alone has led you."

"I would be happy to have someone help me," Sherlock snapped, taking a step closer so that he was looming over John. "Someone actually equipped with a long term memory and the ability to make simple connections."

John gave him a very cold look. "Do you really think I hadn't made the connection with this case by now? That doesn't mean you had to go risk your life again."

Sherlock turned away. "I haven't been risking my life. I have been having a couple of pints and a lot of second hand smoke. Stevenson is back in town and if I am going to prove that it was Moran's boss who took out Levington, it will be by putting myself out there."

"That was Jane Levington? The witness?" John asked, shocked. "Did you tell Lestrade?"

Sherlock frowned. "No," he said. "Not yet. It wouldn't help him anyway. She has no next of kin and her friends have assumed her dead for several months."

"It might help to find the killer," John said, feeling that he sounded a little weak.

"How? We know who killed her and _I_ can't find him. Do you really think the police are more likely to?"

"I think together you're more likely to," John answered with a shrug.

"Then why don't you inform him?" Sherlock snapped and then stalked down the hallway and into the bathroom, slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind him.

John sighed and took his phone out of his pocket, just to stare at it. Lestrade had to know. And yet it felt wrong to inform him while Sherlock was so reluctant to do so, and while he would probably get in trouble after disappearing for two days. But then of course, he could honestly say that Sherlock had asked him to deliver the message to the police. Sort of. He sighed again and turned away from the bathroom door as he made the call.

Sherlock didn't talk to him when he came out of the bathroom for a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and after that he disappeared into his bedroom for more than ten hours. John was up again and had made breakfast, and now Sherlock was willing to acknowledge his presence in the flat again, although it was clear he was still brooding about the case. For the first time, John began to wonder if he shouldn't find his own flat for the sake of his own mental health, rather than to avoid being a bother to Sherlock. The problem remained that he didn't have the money for any decent place in London, but the feeling did motivate him to start another search on his laptop while Sherlock was folded on his chair. Around noon, John got a call from Dr Sawyer that he had the job he had applied for, and to ask if he wanted to talk about it over a drink that evening. Happily, he accepted the offer, and as he put down the phone, Sherlock finally looked at him.

"I won't be available tonight," John announced, in case the detective had tuned out.

Sherlock frowned. "No," he said. "I need you."

John raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly need me for?"

"Company," Sherlock said. "There are places it would be less... conspicuous to go as a couple."

John sighed. "And you couldn't have asked me earlier? I mean... Unless I'm mistaken, this very nice woman is hoping to do things _as a couple_ with me tonight. I don't think I want to let that chance pass."

Sherlock frowned. "You're never busy," he said. "You always come with me."

"Yes, well… Then it isn't so surprising that I want one night off, is it?"

"But you just had two nights off. And then you complained about me going out on my own." Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

John sighed. "Yes. That made me believe you didn't want my help, so I can better move on, right?"

"Move on? Oh... You mean move out." Sherlock shrugged. "Have you found a place?"

"Not yet. But I did find a job, and Sarah asked me to go for a drink, so that could very well turn out to be a date." John hesitated. "I don't think it would make a good impression if I cancelled it now."

"And that's important? Making a good impression?" Sherlock got to his feet and began pacing the room.

"For a job? Yeah, I'd think so," John shrugged.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So you're just going on the date to secure the job?"

John smiled a little. "Of course not. It's a nice side effect."

"But is it a good idea?" Sherlock asked, getting out his phone and searching through the contacts.

John frowned. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be a good idea?"

"Because you'll be working together?" Sherlock said. "Maybe getting involved isn't such a good idea. If you knew the number of clients I've had because an office romance ended in embezzlement, vandalism or murder..." He found the number he needed and, just as John was about to respond, held a finger to his mouth, listening. Then he smiled before turning away sounding quite different from his usual crisp tone. "Hi... So glad I caught you. I need to ask a favour."

John frowned at his change of demeanour and then rolled his eyes. If Sherlock thought he was the ideal person to give relationship advice... Well, it was not even that. All _he_ had planned was a nice night out, without it having to mean anything close to a relationship. Just a drink and a friendly chat that could lead to more, like it had done so often when he had had time off in Afghanistan. Sherlock just saw it all too serious. John simply wanted to have something else to think about when it came to sex than all the guilt which memories of Mary brought about. Obviously he didn't want to forget about her; he did respect her. But he had to move on. There was no other option, really. And all of that was none of Sherlock's business.

"Perfect. Pick you up at eight?" Sherlock asked as he turned towards the window. Then he giggled and hung up.

John looked back at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Who was that?"

Sherlock looked confused, as if he had almost forgotten John was there. "Oh." he said, smiling. "Just a friend. Well... An acquaintance."

"Ah," John said. "So you just replaced me. Well, I'm glad there is _someone_ you trust." He almost felt like telling Sherlock that he had changed his mind and would come with him after all. Almost.

Sherlock shrugged. "He will do. And he'll fit in better anyway. Seem more... believable."

"Great," John said, stomping off to the kitchen to make tea.

…

Though it had started out nice, it soon enough became clear that John had read too much in Sarah's invitation. She had indeed just wanted to brief him a little about the work and perhaps start a friendship between colleagues, but that was as far as her interest in him reached. Not being used to this course of events on a sort of date, John had perhaps even pushed it a little too far - subtly, but still, their evening had ended rather awkwardly and earlier than expected. Clearly, Sarah shared Sherlock's opinion on relationships between colleagues. Three Continents Watson had lost his magic, he thought grimly, and it hurt to think of how Mary would have laughed if he had said something like that.

He considered sending Sherlock a text so he could go help him after all, but he didn't feel like letting him know that his evening had been a small disaster, even though he would no doubt deduce it as soon as he saw him. Besides, Sherlock had other company. Suitable company for what he was doing. John's help would probably not even be appreciated.

Arriving at the empty flat made him even more irritated. Just knowing that Sherlock was probably being successful at whatever he was doing right now. He didn't need John. How could he even have made himself believe that a broken army doctor could be of any use to the only consulting detective in the world? He made a cup of tea and put on the telly, but nothing could captivate him in his foul mood and he ended up going to bed early.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Sherlock had first run into Murphy at one of Moran's old 'offices', or, as the rest of the world saw it, a small, cheap pub out in the East End, he first thought he'd have to bolt. Not only did Murphy work for Moran, but he also knew Sherlock's real identity. And the last time they had met, Murphy had picked him up and handed him over to Moran to be beaten, drugged and almost killed.

But as his eyes met the other man's across the room, he hesitated. Murphy had not blown Sherlock's cover. And he did seem to be a lot smarter than anyone else Sherlock had met in that line of work. Smarter, in fact, than anyone he had ever met that he wasn't related to.

Murphy smiled and beckoned him over and, figuring there were plenty of witnesses around for nothing truly dangerous to happen, Sherlock walked over to join him at the bar.

"Did you ever get paid?" he asked as he sat down on the stool next to Murphy.

The man laughed and shook his head. "No. Moran kept blowing me off. And then he disappeared. But… You already know that part, right?"

Sherlock nodded and accepted the beer that Murphy handed him. "Are you still working for him?" he asked.

"Uhuh." Murphy grinned. "The bastard hasn't been back in the country as far as I know. Not since he had to run from your brother and his cavalry."

They both laughed and drank to the memory.

"But what about his boss? Weren't you really working for him anyway?"

"Nah," Murphy said and shrugged. "I never even met the old fart. I just took my orders from Moran and kept my head down. Like you, but… better…"

"No way you were better than me," Sherlock said, chuckling.

They joked and talked for almost an hour and Sherlock felt more relaxed than he had since the day he had first come across Moran's name.

After Murphy left, Sherlock realised he had left a small slip of paper under his glass, with his phone number and initials. Sherlock had taken it, though he doubted he would ever use it. Murphy was no longer connected to Moran or his boss. He was of no use to him.

But then, when John had turned him down, he realised that Murphy would do just as well, maybe even better, for this particular job.

And now, here they were. Sherlock dressed as Stevenson again and Murphy looking quite sharp in tight low-cut jeans and an even tighter t-shirt. When they walked into the club, Murphy took Sherlock's hand and the detective could practically feel how the attention of the entire room focused on them.

There was no denying they did look quite fetching together. Murphy had mastered the art of looking cute while still masculine, while Sherlock's own appearance was designed to signal both trouble and availability. In short, they looked like living and breathing dream dates for most men in the place.

There was really only a slim chance that he would find any news of Moran here, but he had exhausted all other sources the previous day, and when Moran had brought him here once, some of the staff had seemed to know him pretty well. Sherlock suspected it had something to do with the escort service that was being run out of the back room, but could not prove anything.

So he was just here to listen, ask some questions and probably confirm that Moran had not been seen in London for months.

He was leaned over the bar, talking to one of the guys who sort of remembered him, when he felt a hand on his arse. Murphy's. Caressing him in a rather possessive and slightly suggestive manner. He was about to push it away, when he realised that a lot of men were watching them. They had been the whole time, but the predatory hunger had changed to the detached admiration of someone looking at something pleasant that they know they will never have.

He relaxed, and once the bartender had moved on, turned to Murphy with a smile.

"Thanks," he said. "I think it helped."

"My pleasure," Murphy said, and he gave his bum a squeeze that took Sherlock quite by surprise.

Many people were still watching them and Sherlock was slightly worried that someone might soon start wondering at him constantly talking to the staff. So he took Murphy's hand and led him to the dance floor

Murphy proved, unsurprisingly, to be a good dancer. A slow song came on and, without really thinking, Sherlock let himself be pulled closer until they were dancing cheek to cheek. They moved well together and it was quite comfortable. He let Murphy lead him and closed his eyes.

The monotonous music and slow movements seemed to clear his mind and he let it go over the little he had learned over the past few days. The victim, though badly disfigured, had definitely been Jane Levington, and the killer could only be Moran's boss. Sherlock had seen enough to never forget the mess this man could make when he lost his temper.

But why? That was the real question. That the boss had taken care of this himself, most likely meant that Moran had not returned. But then again, if Moran had not returned, why kill Levington? She had been in hiding for so long. He had, in fact, assumed that she was no longer in London. And in all that time, she had not gone to the authorities with what she knew. She had not even contacted Sherlock.

He was going over every detail of his only encounter with the woman when an unexpected sensation startled him. Hot and warm. And wet.

Murphy, it turned out, was sucking gently on his earlobe. Sherlock giggled. Not only did it tickle, but it also seemed like a very strange thing to do. It was not like it would be particularly visible to those who might still be watching them.

Then it dawned on him. He might not have made it completely clear that they were here to work. Could the other man perhaps be under the impression that this was an actual date? The hand on Sherlock's arse might have been a test to see if they were on the same page and Sherlock, misunderstanding the gesture, had confirmed that he was interested too.

And now they had been dancing, their bodies pressed together for almost half an hour. Of course Murphy would think they were together. The ear-sucking was a bit peculiar. Wouldn't a kiss be more natural at this point? Maybe it had seemed inconvenient, considering the position of their heads.

That, at least, was easy to test. Sherlock pulled his head back gently and turned it to face Murphy. And he was right. In 1.2 seconds, Murphy's lips were on his in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Moran had been all demand and hunger, and Sherlock had gotten more used to it than he had realised. This was tender but also passionate. Like there was a desire underneath, but Murphy was holding back. It reminded him of the way John had looked at Lt Morstan.

He considered pulling back and explaining the misunderstanding. But that might lead to a scene that would definitely blow their cover. And what was the harm really? Murphy had his eyes closed so he wouldn't notice Sherlock scanning the room, checking if there were any of the staff he had not yet spoken to.

A moment later, Sherlock concluded that there was nothing more to do here and he closed his eyes too, focusing on the kiss for a while. Then he pulled back, took Murphy's hand and whispered. "Let's get out of here."

The shorter man nodded eagerly. His cheeks were flushed and he seemed slightly out of breath. He was quite smitten, it seemed. This merited consideration. Could it be useful or should Sherlock get rid of him?

…

Murphy had wanted Sherlock to go home with him, but Sherlock had managed to excuse himself without offending the other man, and shortly after midnight, he was back at Baker Street, humming a tune that had got stuck in his mind, as he made himself a cup of tea.

"What are you so happy about?" John's voice sounded from behind him, rough and a bit muffled.

"Happy?" Sherlock spun around and almost laughed at the sight that met him. John was in his pyjamas, his hair was sticking up on one side of his head and he seemed to be having problems keeping his eyes open. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," John said, frowning and running a hand through his hair. "Do you think you put on enough water for two cups?"

Sherlock looked at the kettle. "Yes, I believe so." He glanced back at John. He had been on a date, but he had come home alone. And he had been asleep for a while, so the date had not gone well. John seemed unsettled, but not frustrated. So his appearance and mood were not caused by the date going sour. Sherlock sighed. "Is the war haunting you again?"

John shrugged. "Don't really want to talk about it."

Sherlock tried to hide his relief. "How was your date?" he asked, turning to the cupboard to get two cups.

John shrugged again. "Certainly not as good as yours. I take it you found something of importance for the case?"

Sherlock nodded as he poured the tea. "Moran's still not in London. And probably not even in the country." He handed John one of the cups.

John nodded, sipping the too hot tea gratefully. "And?"

"I've got a date on Friday," Sherlock muttered into his cup before taking a large sip and burning his tongue.

John almost choked, even though he wasn't drinking. "A date? As in, what normal people call a date?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess so. A light dinner and drinks."

"With... someone?" John asked, his eyes widening.

"Well, it wouldn't be a date if I went on my own, would it?" Sherlock said. He couldn't help but smile a little at John's reaction.

"I thought you didn't... I mean... Sorry," John blushed, quickly taking another sip of tea.

Sherlock chuckled. "I do. Not much, but I am capable, you know." He winked and walked past John into the living room to sit down in his chair.

John stayed in the kitchen a little longer, and when he joined Sherlock, he was still blushing. "So, ehm... Want to tell anything about... them?"

Sherlock chuckled. He had not expected this part to be fun. He had been about to tell John that it was, obviously, just for the case, but now he couldn't resist having some fun with him. Just a bit. "He... is an old acquaintance that I met again yesterday. His name is James and he works in private security." Not a complete lie, Sherlock thought, as he finished his tea.

John smiled. "Well, good luck."

Sherlock nodded, deciding to keep the game going a little longer.

John emptied his tea. "Guess I better go try to sleep again. Got a job in the morning."

"Yes," Sherlock said, already lost in thoughts about what course to take on the case. He had to find Moran's boss. Or at least find out who the man actually was.

"Alright." John smirked a little. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Goodnight."

…

"Morning... Why are you up so early?" John asked, sounding grumpy as he entered the kitchen to make breakfast.

"I've got a case," Sherlock said. "Why sleep more than I have to?" He studied John as he worked, making a mental note of his puffy eyes, tousled hair and deep frown lines. "More nightmares?" he asked.

John shrugged. "Was to be expected, I guess. Starting a new job and everything. And the evening didn't exactly provide much relaxation."

"Yes, that was quite unfortunate. You must be worried it will cause awkwardness when you are working together," Sherlock mused, studying John's reactions.

John just huffed and sipped his tea.

Sherlock smiled and went to get a cup for himself. "I suppose it could be worse," he said, keeping an eye on John. "If you had actually... succeeded with her. I mean, if you had had intercourse last night, wouldn't that be even more awkward?"

"Could you, by any chance, shut up for a bit?"

"Oh... of course," Sherlock hid his smile behind his cup. John really was a treasure trove of human emotions and hangups. He could learn so much from studying him.

Perhaps it was a good thing that John had gotten a job. Otherwise he'd never get any real work done.

"What are your plans for the day, then?" John asked as he smeared jam on his toast.

Sherlock stretched. "I'll mainly be online," he said. "Looking for incidents abroad that might be connected to Moran."

John nodded. "Text me if you're about to do something dangerous, okay?"

"Like click a 'Yes, I am over 18' button?" Sherlock asked, suppressing a giggle.

John rolled his eyes. "So I know when I have to come fish your remaining bits out of the Thames."

"I will let you know when I am about to go in," Sherlock said, nodding.

"Thanks." John sighed and got up. "See you tonight, then."

Sherlock nodded and pulled his laptop over. He hardly noticed John leave, as he had come across some promising triple homicide in Athens. Half an hour later he had, however, determined that it was not connected to Moran, but to an Albanian gang whose attempt to expand had gone wrong. He was about to go make himself another cup of tea when he heard steps coming up the stairs.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," he said, smiling and holding up his empty cup. "Perfect timing. As always."

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Not your housekeeper, Sherlock!"

"I know," Sherlock said, smiling brightly as he held out the cup to her.

She shook her head and took the cup to the kitchen. "I saw John leave," she said. "It's not his habit to go out this early, so I hope you didn't have words again?"

"He's gotten a job," Sherlock said. "He is a doctor, you know." He started a new search and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Of course," she smiled. "So everything is alright between you two?"

"Yes, of course it is." Sherlock said, opening one eye to glance at her. "He's my friend."

"Oh, I know how it is," she winked. "I'm so glad to have seen the day you brought someone home!"

Sherlock frowned. "Are you implying something?" he asked.

"Oh, you don't have to be afraid," Mrs Hudson said, handing him his cup. "You know I only wish you the best. And Mrs Turner even has married ones, I'm not judging!"

"John and I are just friends," he said as he took the cup. "He is far too fond of women for us to be anything more. And I am too fond of my work."

She frowned. "But..." Then she stopped talking and shook her head. "Alright."

"Besides, you know this arrangement is only temporary. Now that John has found a job, he'll be finding a place of his own soon." Sherlock sipped his tea and focused back on the screen, where a series of disappearances in Tokyo had caught his attention.

Mrs Hudson sighed. "It will be a shame, if he really does that. You're different since he's moved in, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not comment. He had to agree. He _was_ different. John's constant fussing had forced him to change some of his methods, being more 'careful' as John called it. He would have thought it would have seemed duller working like this, but it had proved not only safer, but more efficient, and therefore exciting in its own way.

He was never going to admit this to anyone, of course, but he too regretted John's wish to move out.

Mrs Hudson seemed to see something change in his expression and she gently patted his shoulder. "I'll let you work," she said, before leaving.

Sherlock nodded in thanks and forced his mind back on track.

Shortly before noon, he had gotten nowhere and was about to start a potentially dangerous experiment, simply so he could not text John about it, when he got the best kind of text. Lestrade wanted him down at the Yard. A case!

Sherlock sprinted to his room to get changed and was down on the street, hailing a cab, five minutes later.

...

"So," he said, as he strode into Lestrade's office, loosening his scarf. "What have you got for me? Please tell me it's a good one, seeing as how you've called me off another, quite urgent case."

"To be honest, I'm not sure it will be worth it," Lestrade said with a sigh. "It seemed pretty obvious to me, but I got orders from above to investigate every inch of it because they expect there is more to it."

"Above?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as he prepared to turn around and walk right out the door again. "My brother?"

"I'm honestly not sure. At least I haven't heard from him directly," Lestrade said. "But they're important, so I'd like you to go have a look. It's only a little outside London."

"Outside of London?" Sherlock's interest was slightly piqued. It wasn't often Lestrade gave him jobs outside of the city.

Lestrade nodded. "You can drive with me. If you take the case, that is. So I can give you more details on the way."

"As long as it's not in a police car," Sherlock said, frowning slightly.

…

It did indeed seem pretty obvious. A young, newly wed couple had been on their way home from their honeymoon in Vietnam. They had landed in Stansted the previous day at noon, and left by car, but never arrived at their home in London. A search had been started that morning and the car, with the deceased couple inside, had been found in a lake a few miles south of Chelmsford.

"So," Sherlock said, frowning. "They got into a fight and ran off the road. Or she got a bit too friendly and distracted him. Why do you need me for this?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I thought the same. And yet we have orders to give it priority. I don't understand."

Sherlock nodded. That in itself was significant. "Do you have anything on them?" he asked. He might as well spend the drive reading if the DI had nothing useful to tell him.

"I popped the files into your door compartment," Lestrade nodded, his eyes on the road. "It's not much. Their names, details about their trip, but nothing really useful, in my opinion. They don't have any criminal history."

"Of course they don't," Sherlock said, picking up the files and flicking through them.

Perfectly ordinary people, it seemed. Despairingly so. Mid-twenties, both with a steady yet low-profile job. Just bought a small house in Havering, had a dog and played badminton every Sunday with friends.

They had gotten married a fortnight ago and had spent the honeymoon in Vietnam, primarily at the poolside according to the e-mails they had sent to their parents and her sister, who had been taking care of their dog.

Madeleine and Charles Forrestal had, in other words, no enemies, no vices and had no access to secrets or items that anyone would kill for.

The car had been new, a wedding present from his parents and, so far, forensics had found nothing wrong with it. The autopsy reports would not be ready before late in the evening or maybe even the following day.

Sherlock sighed. "The only thing about these deaths that indicates that something criminal has happened, is that they should _not_ have happened. These two had no reason to fight, they were too dull to try any kind of fornication or even foreplay while driving and no one would wish them any harm. The bridge where the accident happened is wide and has a straight road on each side, so it could not have taken the driver by surprise, and tire tracks show that there were no other vehicles involved." He shook the files, as if for emphasis. "So what happened? What?"

"That's why we brought you in," Lestrade said as he parked the car.

"Of course," Sherlock said as he got out of the car and looked around.

After an hour at the scene, Sherlock had gotten no further. There was absolutely no logical explanation for the car going over the side of that bridge. He had even gone through their soaked suitcases and found nothing but what could be expected. Dirty clothes and horrible souvenirs.

He turned to Lestrade. "Where are the bodies?" he asked.

"Back in Bart's morgue. They're examining them, but we haven't gotten the reports yet," Lestrade answered.

"Then let me see for myself," Sherlock said, slightly annoyed at having come this far for nothing.

Lestrade nodded. "I'm sorry. I just don't know where to start looking for this. Or what I'm looking for."

"You'll know when you see it," Sherlock said, heading back to the car.

...

Lestrade brought him straight to the morgue. "I'll join you in a bit after I've done the paperwork, so you're allowed to have a look," he said as he dropped Sherlock off.

Sherlock strode through the door and pushed Molly aside to get at the two bodies she had been examining. "Tell me what you've done so far," he said as he shrugged off his coat.

"Oh, hi, Sherlock," Molly said. "Er - these two? There - there are no traces of a fight before they had the accident, and we're running tests for poison, but-"

"I see," Sherlock said, beginning his examination of the woman's feet.

"All rather weird, isn't it?" Molly said with a nervous little laugh.

Sherlock glanced at her. "The accident? Or that it's being investigated?" he asked.

"Well, one moment they're coming back from their honeymoon, starting a new part of their life, and the next they're drowning. At least I guess they were happy when they died. Well, except that they died, of course." Molly blushed and turned to the man's corpse to open his mouth.

"So you think being happy makes a difference?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "I would have thought that would be considered more cruel. If they had been miserable, they might have welcomed death." He considered it for a moment. "But yes... I see your point. This way, they were spared the disappointment of seeing all their dreams fail."

"Ehm... Something like that," Molly answered, frowning a little.

"Then I suppose their deaths could be considered merciful," Sherlock said, focusing on the palm of the woman's left hand. He frowned. "Do you have their clothes?" he asked.

"Yes, I'll get them for you," Molly said quickly.

Sherlock continued examining the woman, focusing on the right side of her upper body and face.

"There you go," Molly said as she returned and laid the clothes on a table.

Sherlock turned from the body and after a quick search pulled out a wad of soggy, rather creased papers. Picking the spot on the table with the best light, he began smoothing them out carefully.

"I knew it," he said. "They were in seats d and e. Why was she sitting by a window, then? They must have changed seats on the plane." He whirled on Molly. "Get me Lestrade. Now," he ordered.

She nodded and hurried off.

Sherlock's phone chimed.

'_Where are you?_'

He frowned at the text. Wasn't John supposed to be at work? Then he noticed the time and realised it was a lot later than he thought.

'_At the morgue_,' he replied before returning to the bodies. It would take John a while to get here, so he might as well continue his examination.

"Okay, what have you got for me?" Lestrade asked as he entered.

"They changed seats on the flight. I need to know when and why. And with whom," Sherlock snapped as he opened the left eyelid of the man, then the right, examining the iris.

"Ah... I'll return to the office to find out, then," Lestrade said. He almost bumped into John as he went back on his steps.

"See this," Sherlock said, not looking up. "Does this seem right to you?"

John frowned in confusion, but stepped closer.

They checked the eyes and mouth of the man, and then the woman. It soon became obvious. The man had been poisoned. Excessively so. Though drowning had been the cause of death, he would not have lived more than a few minutes longer, had their car not ended up in the lake. He had lost consciousness when they were halfway across the bridge, and despite his wife's attempt to stop the car, it had gone through the railing and into the water.

The wife had minor traces of poison too, but only on her lips and tongue. It would not have been enough to harm her beyond a massive headache.

Now the bigger question posed itself: Why?

"Do you think this'll be solved before Friday evening?" John asked softly as Sherlock was impatiently drumming his fingers on the table, staring in thought at the corpses, which were now covered again.

"I suspect it will be solved by tonight, if I can get the information from the plane," Sherlock said, turning from the bodies and putting his scarf back on.

John nodded. "Good. Do you already know where you're going to go?"

"Well, maybe the airport, but I'm hoping that won't be necessary." Sherlock went over to the door and looked out into the corridor to see if Molly was on her way. He still needed the reports to determine exactly what kind of poison was used and how much, though he was pretty sure the dose had been at least 40% larger than needed to kill Forrestal.

"What?" John chuckled. "I meant for your date. I guess you're not taking _him_ to the airport... yet." He grinned.

Sherlock frowned. What was John talking about? Then it dawned on him. "Oh," he said. "I don't know. Maybe Angelo's," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Is it important?"

John looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I was just... curious. Do you... often take your dates to Angelo's?"

Sherlock studied him. Something was bothering John. But what? His own date had gone badly. Perhaps he was trying to get ideas for ways to avoid such failure in the future. But Sherlock was hardly the one to ask about such matters.

"Of course not. I don't date," he answered.

"Looks like you do now." John had found back a little smile. "With James."

"Oh, I see." Sherlock smiled. John was just being curious. Of course he was. Sherlock himself had been teasing him on the subject. "Technically, I suppose you're right, but it's not really a date in the sense that most people would think."

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes, of course." What was with John today? Was he always this slow? "It's for the case. Well, not this case, but the other one. About Moran and his boss."

John stared at him.

"Got it! It is indeed poison!" Molly waved the papers in her hand as she came in.

"Wait..." John said. "You can't be dating one of _Moran_'s men?"

"Uhm..." Sherlock said, instantly more focused on the papers in Molly's hand. "Yes?"

Molly's eyes went from Sherlock to John and back. She opened her mouth and closed it again.

"You are out of your mind. Completely," John said, shaking his head and walking to the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation before snatching the papers out of Molly's hand and following him.

…

"Sherlock, hi. We've found the name of the man the Forrestals changed places with," Lestrade's voice sounded over the phone.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Who is he?" he asked.

"Well... There's a bit of a problem. Somehow, he has heard that you are involved in the case. And he doesn't want to talk to you. I'm not even allowed to tell you his name."

Sherlock held the phone out and stared at it for a moment, his brow knitted in thought. Then he lodged it between his cheek and shoulder so he could reach for his laptop and open it.

"So they exchanged seats with whomever told us to investigate this... Will he be willing to let me interview him? Without revealing his identity, of course."

"I can ask him," Lestrade said hesitantly.

"If it will help, tell him he will not be talking to me directly. I can instruct John to do the interview."

John, who was sitting in his chair, looked up from his cup of tea. "What interview?" he mouthed.

"Right," Lestrade answered. "I'll let you know if he wants to make an appointment, okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock said and hung up. Then he turned to John, smiling. "This case is proving to be more interesting than I initially thought," he said. "I am going to need you to interview Sir Bellinger. Find out why he exchanged seats with the Forrestals and why someone would want to kill him."

"Ah," John said. "Why won't you do it?"

"He won't talk to me," Sherlock said. "My brother has probably warned him that I'd deduce too much, were I to meet with him."

"Ah. So you need me."

Something in John's tone made Sherlock pause. "Of course I do," he said, wondering why John felt such a need to state the obvious.

John let out a small huff.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

John sighed. "I'm just still... I can't believe that you're taking a risk like that date again."

Sherlock sighed. So that was what was bothering John. "How can it be a risk? I am taking the man to dinner. He does not even work for Moran anymore and even when he did, he did not blow my cover."

"But you're expecting him to give information! If he can do that, there's a chance Moran's men are following him to silence him, and then you're in the middle of all that. Don't you see what danger you are getting yourself into?" John emptied his tea and put down the cup a little more forcefully than necessary.

"No more danger than I am in every time I walk out the door. Moran has as much reason to want to kill me as he does with Murphy." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm as much danger to him as he is to me. And yet... here we are." He grinned as he opened a document and began typing the questions he'd want John to ask.

John was quiet for a while before he spoke again. "I think it would be safer if someone would keep an eye on you. On the date. Just in case... Murphy isn't quite who he says he is." He shifted in his chair.

Sherlock almost giggled. "Are you saying we need a chaperone?"

"No... Not like that." John looked annoyed. "I could just watch out for... you know, unusual things to happen. Dangerous things. I wouldn't... meddle..."

Meddle? In what? Sherlock was about to dismiss the notion when he realised an extra pair of eyes and ears could be an advantage. Not that John was likely to catch something Sherlock wouldn't, but he could only focus on so many things at once.

"You have a point. But Murphy will probably wonder why you're there."

"He doesn't have to know," John said. "I'll just be on another table. So I can have a view on the parts of the restaurant that you can't see. Maybe bring a date myself."

Sherlock considered it. It couldn't do any harm and if it would make John stop brooding... "Okay. You can come."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sebastian pulled his coat more tightly around himself as he got up. This hadn't gone according to plan. And it certainly wasn't his usual style. But all these months of being cut off, of being isolated from the rest of the world, had taken their toll. And he had snapped.

For the first time, he had understood his employer. No wonder that this happened to him all the time, with everything he had on his mind. Yet, right now, it wasn't work pressure that drove Sebastian crazy. There weren't any jobs to do here. He just had to hide. To wait. To let boring day follow boring day. There wasn't even much daylight, so he would sit in the dark in an uninhabited slum and drink himself warm. And that was it. He couldn't risk getting in touch with his old life. If it wouldn't ruin his boss's long-term plans completely, he would have jumped at a chance to serve this time in prison. At least something happened there.

Around noon, he had gone out for a walk. A cheerful young man had almost bumped into him as he left a cafe, and they had started talking. Sebastian had brought him to an alley and so far everything had been okay. It could have been just a bit of fun. But then it had struck him why this man had caught his attention. When he was hovering over his face and dark, almost black eyes looked up at him, pupils blown wide. He looked like Moriarty in nothing else than those eyes, but it had been enough. Suddenly all the anger of the last months had washed over Sebastian, had intensified, and he had started beating the young man before he even knew he had moved. Even when the man fell to the ground, he kept hitting him. Even harder. Hard enough to make his right hand hurt even now. He had been dead long before he gave him those last few kicks in his groin. In his ribs. His body had been completely broken.

Sebastian stood there, staring at what he had done, and could only think, '_shit_'. He was in trouble.

Fortunately no one had been around. He could drag the body behind some containers, and the snow of the last few days had melted enough not to leave too obvious traces. But of course he needed to do more cleaning up. This man wasn't some lost tramp. He would be missed. And by that time, either all clues that led to Sebastian would have to be gone, or he himself should have disappeared. Neither option sounded like he could bring it to a successful end on his own. And thus he took his phone from his pocket and called the number he was only allowed to call in absolute emergencies.

"Boss, I've got a problem."

The answer was a sigh and a single word: "Obviously."

"I've got a corpse here. And I should get rid of him. Also, I want to come home."

"What kind of corpse?" Moriarty asked, and then added: "If you say: a dead one, I will personally skin you."

"A young man," Sebastian answered tonelessly. "He had nice eyes."

"So you fucked him to death?" Moriarty asked, a hint of cold mirth in his voice. "Or did he choke on your cock?"

"It didn't even come to that. I guess that's the most disappointing part. I just... started beating him."

"Of course. Why bother with foreplay when you can go straight to the main event. You always did like the pain more than the pleasure, isn't that right?"

"Can we get to the point?" Sebastian asked.

"Like you did? Of course. Tell me where the body is. Precisely. Then get your things and be sure to be on the boat that leaves in two hours."

"Bringing me home?" Sebastian asked, the hope more obvious in his voice than he cared for.

"Relocating you. The smoke from your last London adventure hasn't quite cleared yet. Though we're getting there."

"Right." He sighed and gave his boss the details.

_Note:_

_Do not despair about the shortness of this chapter. It certainly doesn't mean that we are out of inspiration for this story; in fact, we've already got many chapters waiting. But because of the way we work with different points of view in different chapters, there isn't exactly a fixed length. Next week there will once again be a nice long piece!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Even though Sherlock was probably right that dinner in a public place couldn't hold that much of a risk, John kept feeling uncomfortable about the idea of the date. He couldn't quite say why, but he had been dreading Friday evening all week, even when he was at work and supposed to be focused. As he hadn't been successful at asking someone out, he ended up booking a table just for himself. When the night in question was finally there, he left half an hour early to Angelo's, which made Sherlock ridicule him, but at least he wouldn't miss anything. If someone wanted to set up a trap for Sherlock, he would be in time to notice. But he knew that that was just what he told himself in his paranoia after everything Moran had done. There wasn't much they could do there, and even then, Angelo would always keep an eye out for Sherlock.

After about 20 minutes, a short, dark-haired man entered the restaurant. The way he smiled at Angelo showed genuine mirth, though there was also a hint of shyness in it. Not exactly the kind of man John expected to have worked for Moran, and yet he was shown to the table Sherlock had reserved. The one where John and Sherlock had sat together the week before.

But the man shook his head and said something, and then Angelo nodded and brought him to an even smaller table right at the back. Behind John. He rolled his eyes and looked over his right shoulder. If he moved to the chair on the other side of his table, he could still see them, and Murphy was checking his phone, so probably he wouldn't notice, if John was quick about it. He smiled at Angelo, who passed him just as he had gotten up, then quickly moved his glass a little and sat down again. It wasn't ideal, because he had to look past a few other tables, but it was still safe enough. Good.

Next to him, the door opened again, and this time it was Sherlock. John glanced at him for a moment, but Sherlock didn't even look at him, instead walking straight to the table at the back, as if that was exactly where he was expecting to find Murphy. As soon as Murphy saw Sherlock, he beamed at him and stood up. He took Sherlock's offered hand, but used it to pull him in for a quick kiss. It was clear that it wasn't the first time that had happened. Still, Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback, but smiled as he sat down.

They talked and laughed as they ordered, and Angelo was being pleasant and exuberant, actually shaking Murphy's hand before he went off to get their wine. Murphy was talking a lot, but it did not seem to bother Sherlock. He was smiling and nodding. At one point, it even looked like he was blushing. It made John raise his eyebrows over his own plate of pasta. If the man ever got bored of being a consulting detective, he could always become an actor.

When the wine arrived, Murphy poured them both a large glass and offered a toast that made Sherlock snort.

A group of people entered the restaurant and it took a while before they had all sat down at the largest table between John's and the two men, so John's view was blocked. When they were finally seated, he saw that somehow, Murphy had gotten hold of Sherlock's hand. In fact, he was not just holding it, right there in the middle of the table. He seemed to be playing with the long fingers, running his own thumb over the tips. He was smiling at Sherlock in a rather unsettling way, as if Sherlock was the only interesting thing in the whole world, making the caresses even more intimate. Almost erotic. Sherlock was looking down at their hands, smiling a little.

Then the food was brought in and they let go of each other. While they ate, conversation seemed to be more toned down and casual. John wondered if Sherlock was finally getting to the business of questioning Murphy about Moran. He wished he could hear anything of what they said, but the group between them was making too much noise, and Sherlock and Murphy seemed to talk rather quietly. At one point, Murphy seemed to go tense and he looked away, which made Sherlock frown and then speak quickly. As if he was apologising. _Sherlock_. But then of course, he might need more information and it fit the role he was playing.

Sherlock only ate half of his portion and then sat for a while, pushing a piece of meat about with his fork. Murphy, on the other hand, seemed to have quite an appetite and cleaned his plate completely. Then, when Angelo had taken the plates and asked them about dessert - something John could hear even over the group's talking, because the man always spoke so loudly - Murphy suddenly stood up. But instead of going to the loo or going out to smoke, he moved his chair to the side of the table, so that he was sitting much closer to Sherlock. Too close.

Sherlock seemed surprised by this, but did not protest, and soon Murphy was holding his hand again, while pouring them both more wine. It seemed to be a new bottle, unless they had drunk surprisingly little with their meal. John hadn't really paid attention to it until now.

Angelo laughed when he returned with the desserts and saw them sitting like that. And then he _ruffled_ Murphy's hair. Like he was accepting his favourite nephew's date. After he had left, they tasted their desserts and then Murphy offered Sherlock some of his. He actually fed him a spoon of it and Sherlock let it all happen. Apparently, the detective got some chocolate on his lip, or at least Murphy pretended that he did and wiped it off with his thumb. But did he really have to do that so slowly while looking straight into Sherlock's eyes? John shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Sherlock put down his small fork and after a moment's hesitation leaned over and kissed Murphy. Not just a quick peck like at the start of the date, but a soft, lingering kiss. John averted his eyes. Had Sherlock forgotten that John was watching? Had he not wanted to admit that it was indeed an actual date? Or was he just that good an actor?

Murphy reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek and slowly took charge of the kiss, deepening it. It lasted an entire minute. A minute and a half. Then some loud laughter from some inebriated men at another table distracted them and they broke apart, smiling and slightly flushed.

John was relieved that Angelo arrived at his table just then, to ask if he needed something else, and he could order another glass of water.

Once again, his view was blocked as the large group of people was leaving. It was getting rather late and there were only a few tables left. John hoped it wouldn't become too obvious that he was watching the two men, as he had been here for longer, and all on his own. Not that he was doing much watching right now. He really didn't need to see them snog some more. Even then, Murphy was probably distracted enough not to notice John.

John really, really wanted to leave. He had no desire at all to keep watching Sherlock Holmes on a frankly ordinary date. It was none of his business and it was incredibly awkward. But he couldn't leave. If this was just Murphy playing it well, of course he would make it all seem normal until everyone had long given up on paying attention. And then he would strike. Granted, John was seriously starting to doubt that Murphy was a threat. But he wouldn't risk it and leave his friend. So he had to sit this out.

The next time they broke apart, they spoke for a brief moment and then Sherlock signalled Angelo for the check. The large man smiled and shook his head, indicating with a wink and a wave at the door that they should just get going.

They got to the door before John could even catch Angelo's attention to ask for his bill. Quickly, he threw some money on the table, and then waited a moment until the two men were out, so he could follow them.

John was glad they just walked along the street. It would have been awkward if they had taken a cab, even if he could immediately have gotten one himself to follow them. But now they were just walking at a calm pace, holding hands and now and then leaning into each other. John just strolled after them, once again pondering if he shouldn't just go home. Not that he had to make an effort to be subtle. He doubted that they would notice anyone but each other anyway.

They stopped at an old cinema, and for a moment John wondered if there were even any films starting at this hour of the night, but the screen inside told him that indeed there were a few. He waited awkwardly at the entrance, acting interested in one of the posters, until Murphy had bought them their tickets and he and Sherlock went further in.

"Er, good evening," John greeted the girl in the ticket box, only now realising that he had no idea which film they would have chosen. "Erm, I'm just looking for something nice and relaxing to watch. How about what those two men chose? They look like they have good taste."

The girl frowned a little. "Are you sure, sir? If you really want relaxing…"

"Yes, yes, it's fine," John said, quickly handing her the money for a ticket.

It wasn't hard to find Sherlock and his date in the half-dark theatre. For a start, there was only one other couple sitting somewhere in front, and they were actually watching the trailers. Unlike Sherlock and Murphy.

By the time John sat down in the back, the lights were already dimming and Murphy was almost sitting in Sherlock's lap. They didn't even look up as the title appeared in large letters on the screen, as they were far too busy. John tried not to feel disgusted and frowned as he read the words; he had no idea what they meant and didn't even recognise the language of the film.

The two men managed to keep their lips locked together for almost twenty minutes. Then, giggling a lot, they seemed to focus on the film, Murphy resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

John couldn't keep himself interested in the film for long. He didn't understand a word of it and something seemed off with the subtitles. He wondered how Sherlock could stand it. He was always so easily bored, but now he seemed absolutely fine just resting against Murphy. Actually _cuddling_. He must be seething under the surface. John simply couldn't believe he was really enjoying it, however excellent his performance was.

The film's soundtrack, combined with the boredom, brought him even more on edge. In fact he felt angry. Inexplicably so. Part of him just wanted to push Murphy away and drag Sherlock home so they could stop this ridiculous show.

Eventually, the fatigue of the week's work and the late hour caught up with him, and despite his uncomfortable thoughts, he must have drifted off. Next he knew, the end credits were rolling. And Sherlock and Murphy were gone.

…

"You could have texted me! When you left! I almost called the police, but here you fucking are as if nothing happened!" John shouted as he entered the flat and found Sherlock lying on the sofa, his eyes closed and a small smile playing around his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes calmly, though his smile faded a bit. He glanced over at John. "Call the police? Why?"

"Because you just disappeared!"

"I didn't disappear. I went home." Sherlock sat up and stretched.

"Yes, but…" Had Sherlock seen he had fallen asleep? It had been his own fault, really, but the frustration of the whole evening was clouding John's judgement. "You should have noticed I wasn't following."

"But you were sleeping," Sherlock said. "What would you have me do? Return to the theatre after I'd put James in a cab? I was closer to home by then. And it's not like you didn't know where to look for me."

"I wasn't _supposed_ to have fallen asleep," John muttered. "And what was all that about with _James_? I thought it wasn't a real date?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It wasn't. But… Something happened."

"Yeah, that was clear." John huffed and sat down in his chair. "So what exactly happened? You discovered the wonderful world of emotions?"

"No. Not really. It's just…." He laughed again. "Well, James is a really skilled kisser and if I let him carry on for just a bit he'll trigger endorphins and they are really good for clear thinking." He looked John straight in the eyes as he continued. "It's like being high. Without all the bad stuff."

John raised an eyebrow. "I guess that was the most reassuring comparison you could think of."

"It's the most accurate," Sherlock shrugged. "So, once I had determined that James really did not have any new information, I figured I might as well take advantage of his other qualities."

"Yeah, I saw. And I wish I hadn't," John said, frowning.

"You were the one who insisted on following us," Sherlock said with another shrug, before heading for the kitchen.

John sighed. "That really doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

"Then why did you persist?" Sherlock asked, glancing at him over his shoulder. "Once it had become clear that the terms had changed, you could just have gone home. And you certainly didn't need to follow us to the cinema."

John suppressed a grunt, not allowing himself to get embarrassed. "You can say all that now it went fine. But it could have been a trap. Making you comfortable and then attacking. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I had run off then."

"I think I could have handled him. Don't you?" Sherlock asked and winked.

"_Really_, Sherlock," John said, looking away.

"Really," Sherlock said as he walked past John and disappeared down the hallway leading to his bedroom.

…

The next morning, John still felt slightly uncomfortable around Sherlock. They didn't talk much, until about an hour before John was expected at Scotland Yard for his appointment with Sir Bellinger. Then John took out the list of questions Sherlock had made and frowned.

"Does it even matter what his favourite cocktail is?"

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. "Everything on there matters," he said.

"Yes, but what can you possibly deduce from that?" John asked.

"What he likes to drink, obviously," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

John snorted.

Sherlock chuckled. "Anything else you need to know, or do you think you can handle it?"

"I guess I can handle it," John sighed, straightening his tie. "Maybe I should go. Better not be late."

"No," Sherlock said, just as his phone buzzed. He read the text, smiled and did a sort of wave in John's direction. "Off you go."

…

Sir Bellinger was nothing like John had expected. Where everything about the house he and Lestrade arrived at screamed "rich diplomat", the tall man who opened the door looked more like a handsome farmer from some period piece, with his deep tan, sun-bleached hair and strong posture. And yet, he was wearing a suit with an air of comfort as if he were born in it.

He offered them tea and waved for them to take a seat on the huge leather sofa, and for a moment John couldn't quite remember what the first question on Sherlock's list had been.

"Er, right," he said as Bellinger's green eyes were resting on him expectantly. "Well, I guess the question is simple. Why exactly did you insist that the Forrestals' deaths were investigated? How could you know something was off?"

"Because I met them," he said, frowning a little. "Back in Da Nang. Our plane was delayed and we ended up having lunch at the same airport café. They were such a lovely couple. Level-headed, pleasant and very much in love. For them to die like that... It just didn't make sense."

John nodded. "And you changed places with them in the plane, right?"

He looked startled for a moment. "Yes... How did you know?"

"We found their tickets. But... Well, Sherlock deduced that Mrs Forrestal must have sat by the window," John explained.

He laughed. "Oh yes, of course... The great detective." He looked around. "The very reason why I could not let him into my home. Too many secrets he might guess."

John smiled.

"Did they propose the switch, or you?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, I did," Bellinger said, smiling at the memory. "She was so disappointed that she didn't get a window seat. And I didn't really care, since I'd be working throughout the flight."

"That's nice," John said. "Can you say anything about what you're working on right now? Sherlock asked, but of course we understand if you can't say anything about it. But it might help us."

Bellinger sighed. "I can't. Sorry. Or rather... I could, but then you'd have to be locked up. For ever."

John smiled a little. "Better not, then. Well, he gave me some weird questions too, so I guess we'd better get those over with."

Fortunately Bellinger took the questions with good humour, and after they had joked about what Sherlock could possibly make of it, they said goodbye. John was in a better mood than he had been in a while when he returned home.

"Oh, experiment?" he asked when he saw Sherlock sitting in the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "What...? Oh... no... I was just thinking." He said and then glanced one more time at his phone before putting it in his pocket.

"Okay. I guess you want to hear everything Bellinger said?"

Sherlock shrugged. "That won't be necessary," he said. "I've already gotten in touch with the airline to find out who served drinks to the Forrestals when they were over France."

John frowned. "Then why did I even have to do the interview?"

"So I could get the information I needed, obviously," Sherlock said. "Thank you. You did very well." He grinned at John. "You really liked him, didn't you?"

John stared at him. "What? How...?"

Sherlock got up and walked over to him, reaching behind his neck and sticking two fingers down the collar of his jumper. A moment later he pulled them out and showed John the small device that had been attached there since that morning, when John had left the jumper in his chair while he went to brush his teeth.

"I must say it was quite interesting to witness the Watson charm, even if I could only hear you. A less... worldly man than Bellinger might have thought he was being hit on."

"You _bugged_ me without telling me?" John sputtered.

"Of course," Sherlock said, carrying the device over to his desk and putting it in a drawer. "If I had told you, you'd have given it away. You're not exactly good at pretending."

"I wouldn't have!" John had to take a deep breath to avoid punching Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he said.

"So what did it all tell you? Or did you really just make me ask those things to hear me being ridiculous?"

"Well, he confirmed my theory, obviously. Weren't you paying attention?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly confused.

"Sherlock, I swear to you, don't give me this shit now because I'm close enough to punching you as it is."

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused, as he took a step backwards.

"Well, let me explain it to you. You're being an insufferably annoying _prick_. Now tell me about the case." John glared up at him.

"Oh... " Sherlock relaxed visibly. "We know Charles Forrestal was poisoned. And that no one had any reason to want to harm him or his wife. But they exchanged seats with Bellinger. So someone, who did not know what he looked like, must have mistaken Forrestal for Bellinger and given him the poison. We'll probably never know why someone would want to kill Bellinger, but I intend to find out who."

"It's probably something to do with his job," John shrugged. "So find the one who served the poison and ask them who paid them to do it. I see."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "See? It wasn't that hard."

John rolled his eyes and went to make tea. "Any word on the Levington case?" he asked from the kitchen.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have some ideas, but no way of confirming them yet."

John poured them both a cup of tea and sat down. "So are you going to see James again?" he asked after a while.

Sherlock nodded. "I think so. Being with him is quite pleasant. And he helps me think."

"So it's not about information anymore." John smiled a little.

"No, didn't I tell you?" Sherlock said, smiling too, as his eyes grew distant. "Kissing him helps me concentrate. Think clearly."

"Yeah, okay, I don't need... details," John said quickly, holding up a hand.

"What details?" Sherlock asked, smirking. "You've seen it all."

…

On Monday, John spent his lunch break with a nice nurse he hadn't met yet the week before, and they agreed to go have a drink after their shift. It was nice, just friendly with a hint of possibility. He was still smiling at a joke she had made when he got home - where it looked like a small bomb had exploded.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, clutching a piece of rubber hose that he seemed to have torn from the elaborate setup of his latest experiment, that had been sitting forgotten on the counter since Levington's body had been found. He held the hose with both hands, pulling on it as if trying to break it in half. "I am going to kill him," he hissed through clenched teeth.

John frowned. "O-kay... Who now? Mycroft?" he guessed.

"Of course," Sherlock said, tossing the hose across the room, hitting the wall, much too close to John's head. "This time I think he actually did it specifically to piss me off."

"Wow, calm down," John said, stepping closer. "What happened?"

"What usually happens?" Sherlock barked. "I had the thing practically solved and then he comes in and parks his giant arse on everything, claiming: 'national security'."

"Oh. You found out why they wanted to kill Bellinger?" John asked.

"I would have. If he'd given me five minutes with the steward." Sherlock stamped his foot and then stormed off to his bedroom.

John blinked and sighed.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock changed into a clean suit, ran his fingers through his hair and headed back out, ignoring John's questions as he grabbed his coat and half-ran down the stairs. He needed to clear his mind of anger and frustration. He needed to be able to think. And he needed it now.

He hailed a cab and, as it took him to the address he had heard James give to the cabbie Friday night, he texted James to let him know he was coming. As he stepped out of the cab in front of the rather humble looking building, James came around the corner, his hair ruffled, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open in a wide, slightly breathless grin.

"Sherlock," he called as he ran towards him. "I'm so glad you're here."

Sherlock smiled and accepted being pulled into a hug. "You almost weren't," he said.

James grinned as he took a step back, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was on my way to the shop when I got your text. Ran the whole way home." He stood a moment, just looking at Sherlock. Then he kissed him.

It worked almost instantly. The smooth, moist sliding of lips, the first hint of an eager tongue and it kicked in. Sherlock could feel the natural opioid peptides flood his system and his mind went momentarily, blissfully, blank.

"I needed you," he whispered against James' lips, feeling the other man gasp softly.

"Really?" James asked, and then took Sherlock's hand. "You've got me now. You've got me."

James' flat was small but neat. Everything was old, but had a slightly unused look to it. James smiled as he watched Sherlock look around. "I just bought it all," he said. "Goodwill, you know. I had to leave my old place because too many people knew where I lived."

Sherlock nodded. He too had considered relocating, but Mycroft was keeping a constant eye on the flat, so he figured it was safe enough.

"It's nice," he said, smiling as he looked at James, who laughed and led him over to the sofa.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I'll make tea."

Sherlock nodded and then looked around the room. There were a lot of books on the shelves. Mainly fiction. James seemed to have a soft spot for eighties fantasy and classic horror stories. He smiled fondly, imagining James curled up in the large armchair with a thick book, completely caught up in the story. There was no telly, but he hadn't really expected one. The large framed poster on the wall was, however, quite a surprise. It was for a French-British movie. 'Deux frères'. Two tigers, slightly overlapping, were looking out from a white background above the title and credits.

James appeared in the door. "It'll just be a few minutes," he said. "Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry?"

Sherlock shook his head and pointed at the poster. "That film? Is it any good?"

James stepped into the room so that he could look at the poster. He smiled and nodded. "It's brilliant," he said. "Most of it has been cut together from footage of untrained wild animals. But the editing turns it into a story. A beautiful, sad and heroic story."

Sherlock couldn't be sure, as he could only see his profile, but it seemed like James' eyes were shining a little. Like he might be on the verge of tears. He leaned closer to get a better look, but just then James turned his back and returned to the kitchen.

A moment later, he returned with two steaming cups. He was smiling, his eyes dry but sparkling. It must have been something else. Maybe just the light.

He sat down next to Sherlock and handed him one of the cups, putting the other one on the table. Sherlock sipped his tea and then smiled. "This is really good," he said.

James nodded smugly. "Just as you like it?" he asked.

"Just as I like it," Sherlock answered, putting down his cup.

James didn't hesitate. Rather, he practically jumped Sherlock, kissing him eagerly and with a hunger Sherlock hadn't sensed in him before. But it was working, so he wasn't about to protest. As James crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs, kissing him deeply and pushing his jacket off his shoulders, Sherlock let his mind wander to the little he had been able to learn about Bellinger from what he had heard. He had, of course, also checked whatever public (and not so public) information he could find on the man, but since he had received a promotion about a year ago, his work had been kept strictly confidential. Sherlock hadn't even been able to find out where the man had been staying during the five days he had spent in Vietnam before meeting the Forrestals.

He only realised that James had begun unbuttoning his shirt when he broke the kiss to lean down and lick one of his nipples. To his own surprise, Sherlock moaned and felt his body responding. This was... unexpected. Not what James did. It had been all too obvious that he was aiming to have sex with Sherlock. And Sherlock had been willing to indulge him. But now he found that he actually wanted it too. Or rather, his body wanted it.

He rarely felt such urges and even more seldom acted on them, but now he could see absolutely no reason to not let his body have the release it craved.

He put his hands on James' hips and then began tugging at his t-shirt, smiling as an eager whimper escaped the smaller man. James' lips left his nipple only long enough to get his shirt over his head, then he was back to kissing, licking and biting it gently. Then suddenly he sat up, looked down at Sherlock for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange glow Sherlock had never seen before, and then he let himself slide to the floor to kneel in front of Sherlock. He put his hands on Sherlock's knees and let them slide up his thighs until they reached his crotch. Sherlock gasped at the soft touch as James' fingers moved up to open his trousers.

He lifted himself up enough for James to pull his trousers down past his knees and then lifted his feet so he could get them all the way off. Then James pushed his knees apart and moved closer, placing one palm on the bulge in Sherlock's pants, massaging it softly. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure. It had been so long since he'd let anybody touch him like that. Not that many had wanted to, over the years. But here he was, feeling James' eager fingers pulling at his pants, working them down, his fingers touching naked skin, stroking his cock before slipping a condom on. He hadn't even noticed him taking it out of the foil. He had been completely distracted by James' touch and...

Sherlock's mind was drowned in an explosion of input as James took the head of his cock between his lips and began swirling his tongue around it. Sherlock was vaguely aware of himself squirming and moaning quite loudly, but his entire focus was centered on the sensations that James was causing. Surely it had never felt like this before. He had only received head a few times and had always felt it to be a slightly tedious activity, though easier than intercourse, so he had gone along with it when partners had offered. But this... This felt good. Maybe it was the result of the state he had been in because of the kissing. His system had been prepped for this. The clear thoughts and focus he had experienced had really just been his mind getting ready for this.

If this was what people felt when they were with a lover and not just a casual partner, a lot of things made so much more sense. He could understand how this could become addictive. Why some people would kill for this. He had always wondered, when he had one of his few and usually half forced orgasms. Now he understood.

James' tongue was done exploring and now he began sucking Sherlock's cock deeper into his mouth, causing an entirely new range of sensations. Without thinking, Sherlock ran his fingers through James' hair. This made him hum, which sent a wave of vibrations up through Sherlock's cock, making him gasp and twitch.

James began running his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, as he started bobbing his head, sucking hard every time he took him in.

It seemed to go on forever. Each time Sherlock felt himself approaching climax, James would stop moving for a moment, only starting again once he felt Sherlock relax. Then, finally, when Sherlock felt he might soon start to beg for release, James took him deeper than he ever had before. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised the tip of his cock was sliding down James' throat.

James swallowed once, and the tightening of the muscles was all it took. Sherlock cried out as he felt the tension in his loins increase and then release as he came, trying to keep himself from thrusting forward, even deeper down James' throat.

Afterwards he wondered if he might have blacked out. He certainly didn't notice James releasing his cock, removing the condom or moving off the floor until he was sitting in his lap again, kissing Sherlock's neck lazily. Sherlock sighed deeply and wrapped his arms around James.

"Can we move to your bed?" he asked, his voice sounding rather slurred and very very deep.

James giggled and nodded.

…

When Sherlock woke up with the feeling of a warm arm tightly around his chest, he nearly panicked before he remembered where he was. He turned to look at James and smiled. He had fully intended to return the favour one way or another, but as soon as they were lying down, James had begun kissing him again, and soon he had blissfully drifted off. Clearly James hadn't minded, since he had put a blanket over Sherlock and held him while he slept. Judging by the light, it had been several hours. James was sleeping too, even when Sherlock placed a soft kiss on his lips. Then, just to see what would happen, he kissed his nose too.

James grunted and his eyelids fluttered. Sherlock couldn't suppress a giggle at the sight, and James opened an eye. "Oh…" he muttered. "You're awake."

Sherlock nodded, smiling. He really hadn't felt this relaxed in ages. Coming here had been a really good idea. Who would have known James would be so useful?

James smiled too and then leaned in to kiss him. The next ten minutes were well spent getting his thoughts sorted, until he was distracted by James calling attention to his body's arousal, by slipping a hand into his pants to give his erection a soft squeeze.

Sherlock remembered his intention of reciprocating the blowjob he had gotten earlier, and he gave James' shoulder a soft push to make him roll onto his back. But instead, James giggled and pushed Sherlock, who soon found himself flat on his back with James kneeling next to him, pulling his pants down.

"No," Sherlock protested, though not exactly forcefully. "It's my turn. Let me take care of you."

"Oh, you will, honey," James said, rising up to pull off his own pants. Sherlock reached out to touch his cock, as much out of his wish to please him as out of curiosity. It was quite different from Sherlock's own. Thicker and shorter.

But James pushed his hand away and then moved so Sherlock could not reach him. He leaned over the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock a very direct view of his rather shapely backside and, to his surprise, Sherlock felt his cock stirring. He almost laughed. This was very unusual. He had not felt such an immediate sexual attraction to anyone since his late teens. And even then it had been more vague. Something easily ignored and pushed aside.

But this time, it hit him hard and with a sense of urgency he would never have expected. He lifted himself up and reached out a hand to touch James, but, as if the other man sensed his intention, he suddenly sat up and turned to Sherlock with a grin, holding up a condom.

Sherlock nodded and a moment later James was rolling the condom on him and then straddling his hips. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of intercourse enough times to know what to expect and how to handle it, but this was the first time he felt himself slide inside another person and the heat and tightness were so... intense… He gasped and then closed his eyes, wanting only to feel. To observe and save every single aspect of this new experience.

James was moaning softly as he sank down over him. When Sherlock's cock was completely buried inside him, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock. A long and very deep kiss.

Then he began moving and Sherlock's senses exploded again.

For a long time he just lay there, completely caught up in the experience. Then his body seemed to take over and his hips rolled, matching James' rhythm in a way that seemed to push him even deeper inside him.

Letting out a long soft groan, he lifted his hands and placed them on James' hips, lifting him up a bit so he could thrust harder. The smaller man moaned and clenched around him, making Sherlock gasp.

It didn't take long. He could feel his muscles start to tighten as they prepared for climax. He moved one hand to James' cock and began stroking him, wanting him to finish first. James hissed and placed his hands over Sherlock's, controlling the speed at which he moved it, and after a moment, he grew so tight it almost hurt and then cried out as he spilled over their hands.

The sight and sensations took Sherlock's breath away and for several seconds it was like he was suspended in a sort of limbo where nothing existed but the warmth and friction of James' body above him. Around him. Then sound came rushing back and, as James bore down on him, Sherlock came so hard his vision went completely white for a second.

As he lay there panting, his ears ringing slightly, James leaned down to kiss him again and then got off him to settle next to him, his cheek resting on Sherlock's chest as he sighed happily.

…

"Ah, you're back. Calmed down a bit?" John had just returned from work and was still hanging up his jacket when he had spotted Sherlock. He seemed rather pleased about something.

Sherlock smiled and nodded as he got up from the sofa. "Yes. I'm feeling much better." He studied John. "What happened to you?"

John shrugged. "It was a rather nice day at work. Where did you go last night?"

"James' place," Sherlock said as he picked up his laptop. "I needed to clear my mind. He was very... helpful..."

John snorted. "Helpful?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, trying not to grin. "He seemed to know just what I needed."

For a moment, John's expression seemed on its way to a frown, but then he smiled again, be it somewhat tightly. "I'm happy to hear that."

"How about your new... friend? Is she as... perceptive?" Sherlock asked, smiling as he kept his eyes on John, so as not to miss any nuances of his reaction.

"Oh. You mean Liz? She's really just a friend," John said. "But she's a lot of fun to be around."

"That's good," Sherlock said. "You could use 'just a friend' I think. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Now John really frowned. "I'm off for a shower," he said shortly.

Sherlock frowned too. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked. "She clearly wants to be more than friends. You should ask her out." A successful date would surely cheer John up.

"I'm really not sure I want to," John said. "Not after..." He stopped, tensely staring at the wall for a moment.

"What?" Sherlock studied him. "Sarah? You don't have to worry about something like that with Liz. She should be a sure thing."

"Really? You think this is about Sarah? Seriously, Sherlock, you're a moron." John turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sherlock stared after him. A moron? Him?

It took a moment, then his mind caught up. Mary! Of course. John was right. He had been a moron. But his mind felt pleasantly at ease after his night and day with James. He might be able to think more clearly when they were together, but the side effect seemed to be that he slowed down afterwards.

That might prove a problem at some point, so he'd need to give it some thought and see if it could be countered. He couldn't have it affecting his work negatively. But he really didn't want to go without the boosts James gave him either. He hoped he could find a way to deal with it, before he did something stupid.

When John returned from the bathroom, Sherlock had forgotten all about it. He had done his regular search with less than his usual focus, and had almost missed it. A seemingly random murder coinciding with the disappearance of a man that the locals described as 'large, standoffish and scary'. In itself not enough to warrant further investigation, but there was a picture of the victim and, for some reason, it had caught Sherlock's eye. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something vaguely familiar about the young man.

"Come here, John," he said. "Take a look at this. Do you think Moran could be behind it?"

John hesitated for a moment, then walked towards him and peered at the screen. "I don't know..." he said slowly. "When we found Moran's victims, he had been making the effort of patching them up. Does it make any sense that he'd do... this, now?"

"Maybe he was interrupted. Or panicked." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. "I don't know yet, but there is something about this that just says 'Moran'. Though I must admit it seems even more... brutal, than his usual work. Like his boss had a hand in it. But we know he's here in London. Or at least was in London shortly before this happened. No way he could have killed Levington and then gotten to..." He checked the screen. "Tórshavn, that quickly."

John nodded. "So you think they could find him there?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Long gone by now. But still. It's a start."

John stared at the screen for a while. "It's still strange. Even if he panicked, it's... messy. Like he _wants_ to attract attention."

"Or like he lost control. Like he is under stress. Which indicates that he is not abroad by choice but rather by order." Sherlock reached for his phone and began composing a text.

"Who are you texting?" John asked.

"Mycroft," he said. "Letting him know that Moran's boss is keeping him abroad. He may relax the security around me a bit, knowing my... 'ex' is out of the country."

"I doubt he will," John said, smiling a little. "But I guess it's a good idea to let Mycroft know. He may find out more about where Moran is now."

"Yes, maybe he can find out what plane he left on," Sherlock said, putting down his phone. A moment later, it buzzed and he looked down at it, smiling.

John leaned in to read over Sherlock's shoulder, but stepped back as soon as he had read a few words. "Er," he said, blushing a little. "That's not Mycroft, right?"

"I hope not," Sherlock said, as he began to type a response. "I'm pretty sure I did not spend last night at his place and if I had, I doubt he would be thanking me."

"No, and certainly not so... colourfully." John let out an embarrassed giggle.

"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling fondly. "He does have a way with words, doesn't he?"

John grinned. "It's really funny to see you like this."

Sherlock looked up from his phone, puzzled. "Like what?" he asked, frowning at John.

"You know, all... smitten. You really like him." John was smiling.

"I'm not smitten," Sherlock said, sneering at the thought. "He makes me feel good. I am grateful to him. But there's no... sentiment."

John smirked. "So that's why you're looking at your phone like a lovestruck puppy."

"I am not," Sherlock said, starting to get angry.

"Of course not." John sat down in his chair, still looking amused.

Sherlock stood up. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Not really," John said. "Just pleased that sometimes you do something as human as falling in love."

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. "What?" he said, sure he must have misheard.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, sorry, I wouldn't want to insult you by calling you a human being."

Sherlock huffed and stalked off.

How typically John. He just had to make more out of this than it really was. Falling in love? Him? As if.

…

Sherlock heard the doorbell, but decided to ignore it. He had been up most of the night, searching for other incidents that might point to Moran, but with no luck. He did not know how long he had slept, but he knew it wasn't enough.

The bell rang again - insistent, almost nagging, nothing like the hopeful yet polite ring of a client - and immediately after, his phone started too.

Sherlock scrambled for his phone. When he saw the name on the screen, he groaned. He considered turning it off, but knew it would not make him go away, so he took the call. "What?" he hissed into the phone.

"Sherlock, I am on a busy schedule today," Mycroft's annoyed voice came. "Since you are on a case, I don't see what you think to achieve by still being in bed at this hour. Let me in."

"Why should I let you in?" Sherlock snarled. "I am no longer on any case involving you. You saw to that, remember?"

"But you sent me the information on Moran. I think that is worth discussing, don't you?"

"What's to discuss?" Sherlock said, groaning as he got out of bed. "Either you can trace his flight from the islands or you can't."

"Though wouldn't it be a shame if I could and you didn't find out because you were too stubborn to allow your own brother in and offer him a cup of tea?"

"Yes. And it would be equally unfortunate if my brother was too stubborn to tell me this over the phone, or better yet, put it in an email."

"You know I'm coming in anyway, Sherlock," Mycroft said in a too-friendly tone.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock said and hung up, then headed for the bathroom and a very long shower.

When he finally came out, Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, looking bored and shifting objects on the low table around with the tip of his umbrella. "Finally," he said, looking up and pushing a matchbox just a little too far so it dropped off the edge.

Sherlock watched the matchbox fall. He had bought it on his first date with James, intending to slip outside the club for a cigarette and a talk with the bouncers. But he had never gotten around to it. James had kept him... occupied.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it is a big improvement that you can be entertained even by a simple matchbox these days, certainly compared to your long fits of boredom, but could you perhaps focus on the question at hand for a few minutes?"

Sherlock's mood was not improved by being distracted from those particular memories, but he decided it was not worth getting into.

"So..." he said as he flopped down in his chair. "What have you found out? Do you know where Moran is now?"

"No," Mycroft said, "but at least you have pointed us in the right direction. From where he left, there are a few logical options that could be his next hiding place, and I will see to it that those are investigated."

"Good," Sherlock said, looking at him expectantly, hoping he would leave now he had said his piece.

"So I understand you have not taken another case after the Forrestals?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have been busy," he said with a sigh. Apparently his brother was not leaving. He looked around for his phone and spotted it on the table right next to the tip of Mycroft's umbrella. The message light was flashing. He quickly looked away, not wanting to draw attention to it.

Of course, it was too late, and Mycroft's eye fell on it. "Are you not taking that?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "Sure," he said, walking over to pick up his phone.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little. "You seem rather distracted this morning. Surely this can't have anything to do with that dark-haired fellow you have been seen with."

Sherlock tensed a little before snatching the phone away. "That," he said, "is none of your business." He turned his back before opening the message. It was from James. And even more elaborate than the previous one. He smiled, both at the thought of how John would have looked had he seen it, and in anticipation of the things James promised to do to him.

Mycroft sat up straight, leaning on the umbrella. "Well, I won't have to tell you again to keep your nose out of matters that are of no concern to you, if you have a more... ordinary... occupation these days."

Sherlock was about to protest, but then realised that letting Mycroft believe what he wanted just might make his life easier. "Correct, brother," he said. "I am quite smitten." He turned to smile at his brother. "Do you want to know the things we do? Or would you prefer footage, like last time?" he asked, cocking his head a little.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, thank you. As I said, my schedule is rather tight today, so I'm afraid I will have to leave."

"Oh, really," Sherlock grinned. "Let me at least show you the mark he left." He began loosening his robe. "It's not in a place I'd usually show off, but since you are my brother..."

The door was shut with just a little more force than necessary and Mycroft seemed to take the stairs with exceptional haste.

Laughing, Sherlock lay down on the sofa, rereading James' text.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was the cheap sort of hotel where very few questions were asked, with mould spots on the wall and a hard bed that was well on the way to ruin his back. And yet it was an oasis of comfort compared to the last place where he had stayed.

Sebastian rolled over on his side and sighed. He wanted to sleep, if only to get one night closer to the unknown point in the future when he could go back to business. But after the incident in Tórshavn, he had avoided going out and all the cooped up energy was catching up with him. All he managed to do was staring into the darkness with his eyes wide open, feeling irritable and bored. It was the kind of mood that, if someone had been lying next to him, would have him start poking at them until they started messing around in earnest. But obviously there was no one there. And the only person who could really bring him rest in a mood like this, was back in London.

He rolled onto his back and groaned. He had been thinking about having a wank, but he knew that it would be unsatisfactory and only leave him even more frustrated. Even if he had just had the calming presence of a familiar body next to him without being allowed to touch, he would have felt better. It was ridiculous, really. They had often slept separately for weeks, and quite a few times it had actually been a relief to have the bed to himself if he had been staying over for a while. But now he had been far away from home for months and apparently it made him long for that one impossible thing. Ridiculous indeed, but he couldn't shake it off. Not without thrashing this whole room into shards - that horrid vase looked like it would make a very satisfactory breaking sound - but he couldn't afford another mistake. He had to stay in here and behave, however crazy it drove him.

He moved onto his other side, stretched his arm towards the tiny bedside table, flicked on the light and grabbed his phone. He fiddled with it for a moment, hesitating. Then he finally typed out a text.

'_I miss you, Boss.'_

The answer came less than a minute later.

'_I know.'_

Sebastian rolled his eyes at the message. '_You busy?'_, he typed.

'_Yes. But I have time for you.'_

He smirked. '_Just admit you miss me too, you bastard.'_

'_I miss some things.'_

'_All you have to do is give me the order and I'll be back.'_

'_You know I can't. Not yet.'_

'_Then come here.'_

'_I can't. I'm working.'_

'_Then think of something.'_

A moment later, his phone rang.

"Yes, boss?" Sebastian said, unable to keep down his grin.

"Get naked," came the curt answer.

"Really? I checked for cameras, but..."

"Now," Moriarty insisted.

Sebastian sat up and threw the blanket off himself. "Done."

"Good. Now on your knees, chest down, arse up." The words were followed by a low chuckle.

Sebastian put the phone on speaker and obeyed.

"Good boy," Moriarty said. "Now reach up behind you and massage your hole. The way you do when you are preparing it for me."

"When I get the chance," Sebastian said, once again following the order without a moment's thought.

"Tell me how it fells," his boss purred. "Is it tight? Has it been neglected for too long?"

"It is rather tight, and it has certainly been neglected for too long, Sir," Sebastian answered. "Can't you even take one day off to come put things right?"

"Patience, Tiger," he said. "Tease that hole. Think of all the things I will do to you once I have you in my room. Think of all the ways in which I have had you in there. In which I will have you again." There was a long pause. "You are mine. You are my Tiger."

"Yours," Sebastian nodded, a little breathless as he finally pushed his finger in.

Moriarty laughed. "Yes, you are. And right now you are just aching for me, are you not?"

"For anything that could get my mind out of this hellhole," Sebastian corrected, then sighed as he moved his finger.

"Oh..." The pause was even longer this time. "Well, if anything will do, then surely you don't need to bother me," he said, and then hung up.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sebastian muttered, sitting up on his knees and snatching the phone off the bed to call him again.

It was answered on the third ring, but Moriarty did not speak.

Sebastian sighed and put himself back in the position Moriarty had asked for before. "Please, Boss," he tried. "You know that you really are the only thing that can properly occupy my mind and body."

After a moment a whisper sounded over the phone. "Go on."

"Thank you, Boss. What do you want me to do next?"

"Do you have your finger in yet?" he asked, softly.

Sebastian pushed and groaned. "Now I have."

"Good. Don't move it. Just keep it there," he said. "For now."

"Sir," Sebastian said, trying to manage his impatience.

Moriarty laughed. "No cheating," he said. "I'll be able to tell if you're cheating." There were some sounds as if he was moving about. "Now, lift your other hand to your cock and wrap your fingers around it. Is it hard?"

"Very," Sebastian said, suppressing a whimper as he gave himself a soft, firm stroke.

"I thought so," Moriarty said, chuckling a little. "Just hold it. Firmly but not too tight."

"But I _need_..." Sebastian shut up. He couldn't argue and risk that Moriarty would put down the phone and not pick up again for the rest of the evening.

"You need me," Moriarty said. "Don't you?"

Sebastian just nodded, to his disgust feeling a slight blush creeping up to his cheeks.

"I can't hear you," Moriarty said, in a sing-song voice.

"Yes, Boss. Please," Sebastian sighed.

"Say it," he said firmly.

"I need you. I need my Kitten." Sebastian squeezed his hand a little more tightly around his cock.

"That's better," James said. "You can move your finger now. Slowly."

"Yes, Sir." He complied and moaned.

"I want you to make yourself come," he said. "Just using your finger. You can hold your cock, but no stroking or teasing. Understood?"

"Fuck. Why do you have to do this? Why can't you just let me take what I need?"

"You need me," Moriarty said. "That's all you need. Now do it."

Sebastian sighed and started moving his finger more forcefully. For a while, it was enough, but as he got closer and his hips moved more frantically, his cock throbbing heavily, he needed more. "Please," he whined. "Let me use just one more finger. Please, Kitten."

"Two more," the answer came. "Think you can fit that?"

"Yes, fuck, thank you," he gasped, pulling out his finger and pressing it against two others so he could slowly work them in. The stretch burned a little, which made him groan in bliss. "Oh, Boss..."

Moriarty laughed. "You are such a painslut," he said, a definite smirk to his voice. "I am so going to beat you up once I get my hands on you."

He moaned. "You're going to make me come if you keep talking like that."

"That's the whole point, isn't it?" he giggled. "I think I'll tie you to my desk again and whip you. And then fuck you until you scream."

"Yes," Sebastian breathed, bearing down on his own fingers. He wanted to suggest the knives, wanted to make Moriarty come with him by adding to the dirty talk, but all he managed were whimpers and animalistic sounds. "So close..."

"Come for me, Tiger," Moriarty purred. "Make a mess on your bed and then sleep in it, so you will wake up thinking of me."

"I always - Kitten -" He couldn't control his hand squeezing around his cock, and then with a shout he was coming hard, still thrusting his fingers fast until he slumped down in his own mess.

"Good boy," Moriarty said and hung up.

Sebastian groaned, made a feeble attempt to reach out to his phone and fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

John had almost made an enormous fool of himself. Again. It was only lucky that for once he had been warned just in time.

Even though he had avoided the embarrassment, the discovery had taken away his pleasure in the rest of the day's work, and he was glad that it was his last shift of the week, so he would have the time to come to terms with the fact that he probably wasn't getting laid any time soon. Even bloody Sherlock Holmes had a boyfriend these days. Not that a boyfriend was what John was in for. But a relationship. A nice time with another person without being torn by guilt.

Of course John was trying to be glad for Sherlock. Yet somehow, the fact that this distant, rational man was in love with someone, was just such a strange concept to wrap his head around. And to figure out how he felt about. He really wanted to be happy for him. It was probably very good for Sherlock, after a life of being almost socially isolated. And yet, something about it... hurt. It really wasn't that he couldn't grant Sherlock the happiness that he himself hadn't found. He wasn't that kind of person. He genuinely wished his friend all the best. And he wasn't jealous, obviously. He wasn't in love with Sherlock. He did admire his genius and liked being around him and working with him, even if he was of little use to him, most of the time. But it wasn't a romantic attachment. Not even the curious hint of it that he had felt before they met, when he had been with Mary and had wondered about Sherlock. Back then, he had badly wanted to deny to himself that that had happened, but now it seemed better to accept it so he could believe he had gotten past that.

It didn't even really worry him anymore that Murphy had worked for Moran. Yes, that concern was there, but John had sat through a whole date between Murphy and Sherlock and had seen for himself that there had been a true expression of adoration on Murphy's face, that they had simply done all the things that happened on dates. And apparently they had explored their relationship a little further by now, so John could calm down his paranoia and believe that it wasn't all a lie to get to Sherlock and spy on him. Of course he'd still keep an eye on Sherlock if he believed it was necessary to protect his friend, but right now it seemed only beneficial that he and Murphy were together, so he'd support that. He could be a good friend who didn't get in the way of Sherlock's happiness.

But before Murphy, it had been just the two of them. At first in the mails, when they had been each other's only connection with another world. Another front. And then, as they had started working together, they had been the only two people who had really understood the battlefield that London was. Of course nothing had changed there. Probably Sherlock would still drag him along on cases. But somehow, however ridiculous, it made John feel less important, now he wasn't the only one who understood Sherlock in some way. Even though it was in a completely different way, James had partly taken John's place by the great detective's side.

Honestly, it wasn't just the change in Sherlock's romantic life that made him feel like this. There simply weren't so many lives that depended on John anymore, now he was just another doctor in a hospital. He was still useful, but his importance had diminished. Maybe it was time he started to see a therapist after all. It was almost funny that out of the two of them, Sherlock was the first to get his social life back on track. They had fought a different war, they had both come out injured, but Sherlock, it seemed, had been better able to deal with the trauma. Obviously John was happy for his friend, granted him that triumph. He just wished that he too had been able to move on, had not ruined almost every new contact because he wanted to drive it too far too quickly – wanted to be important too badly. That he wouldn't constantly miss the war and the way things had been with Sherlock. Wouldn't keep thinking of Mary all the time, asleep as well as awake, and regretting every choice he had made around his relationship with her. He couldn't begrudge Sherlock anything because of his own pain. He should do everything to support Sherlock and to make his relationship with James work.

He had had all the time he needed to make up his mind on all that as he travelled home from work, and just before he opened the door to the flat, he took a deep breath and gave himself a nod. This weekend he would find the contact details of a good therapist and start looking at flats again, but first he would honestly tell Sherlock about his day. He opened the door and shrugged off his coat.

"Hey. You were wro- Oh." He stopped dead, staring at the two men who were entangled on the sofa. "Sorry. I didn't know you had a visitor."

Sherlock looked up, his tousled hair even more ridiculous than usual. "Oh, hi, John," he said, smiling. "Have you met James?"

The shorter man, who had been lying half on top of Sherlock, got to his feet, giggling.

"Hi," he said, pulling down his t-shirt, which had been bunched up under his arms. "Great to meet you, John." He took a step forward, holding out his hand.

"Nice to meet you, too," John said, taking the hand and forcing a smile. "I'll just make a cup of tea and then you've got the living room to yourselves again."

"Good," Sherlock said, but James shook his head.

"John lives here too. We can behave ourselves. And I'd kinda like a cuppa," he said.

John smiled. "Of course. But I won't keep you too long."

Sherlock sighed and stood up too. "Do we have any biscuits?" he said. "I'm in the mood for something sweet."

James giggled and leaned over to whisper something in Sherlock's ear that made him chuckle and give him a playful shove.

"I'll bring some biscuits, yeah," John said, hurrying to the kitchen. Accepting what was going on was one thing. Getting it shoved in the face... Well. He'd make it an early night.

"There you go," he said as he returned to the living room with the tea and a plate of biscuits.

Sherlock was busy kissing James' neck, but James pushed him away gently.

"Sherlock," he said in mock exasperation. "I promised we would behave. Now give John a hand with that."

Frowning slightly, Sherlock walked over to John to take the teapot from the tray. He glanced at James, who gave him a tiny nod, and then sighed before looking at John. "Thanks," he muttered, putting the teapot down on the table.

James giggled as he sat down and winked at John.

John chuckled a little uncomfortably. "Good that someone is teaching him manners, I guess."

Sherlock huffed and sat down, crossing his arms. James just laughed and leaned forward to pour the tea.

John sat down in his chair. "So, ehm, are you staying over for the whole weekend, or just tonight?" he asked James.

James looked over at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "We hadn't really discussed it," he said. "But I'd love to stay."

Sherlock frowned for just a second, then smiled and nodded. "That would be great," he said. Then, at a look from James, he looked over at John. "If it's okay with you, of course."

"Yeah, sure," John nodded. "Sure," he repeated, smiling a little.

James beamed at him. "I've been nagging Sher to let me cook my famous Irish stew for him. So tonight dinner is on me." He jumped to his feet. "Which means I have some shopping to do."

He bent down and kissed Sherlock. "I'll be right back, Sugar."

Sherlock smiled and kept his eyes on him until he was out the door. Then he turned to John, looking slightly sheepish.

John smirked. "Well done, Sugar. Looks like you're pretty serious about it after all."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't call me that," he snapped.

"You didn't seem to mind a moment ago. But don't worry, I'll let it be your special thing. Just teasing." John grinned.

Sherlock sighed and seemed to deflate. "I wish he wouldn't call me that either," he muttered.

John frowned. "What do you mean? I thought you were having fun together."

"We are," Sherlock said. "It just sounds so... affectionate."

"Yeah, well, I guess affection is sort of the point of a relationship," John said, his expression softening a bit. "Is he perhaps going a bit too fast for you? You can tell people, you know."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, looking away.

"Was what?" John asked, confused.

"What was it I was wrong about?" Sherlock asked, sounding rather doubtful.

"Oh. Right," John said, remembering what he had been saying when he came in. "Liz. You were wrong about her."

"Who?" Sherlock frowned.

"The nurse at work. The one you said was a 'sure thing'. She most certainly isn't."

"Oh?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Married?"

"Maybe, I wouldn't know. But she was wearing another kind of ring. Not on her hand, she's a nurse, she couldn't wear it for work. It's just a coincidence that today I saw she's wearing it on a chain around her neck, tucked under her clothes. A black ring."

"Black?" Sherlock frowned. "How large was it?"

"Just the normal size," John shrugged.

"It's very important," Sherlock said. "Black rings have very different meanings depending on which finger and which hand you wear them on."

"I know. That's why I said she wouldn't be interested," John said, rolling his eyes.

"She could be. If it is worn on the right hand, but not on the middle finger, she could be very interested," Sherlock said, smirking slightly. "Did you notice a mark on any of her fingers?" Then he closed his eyes. "No, of course not. If she wears it on a chain at work, it won't be very tight. And never left on long enough to leave a mark. Unless she's been tanning, that is." He opened one eye and looked at John. "Did you see any tan lines?"

"No," John said hesitantly, "but I thought..."

"You should find out," Sherlock said. "If it's the middle finger, she could make a great friend. No risks. But if it's any other finger, you could be in for a bit of an adventure. No strings attached and no jealousy to worry about."

John stared at him. "Did you ever need that knowledge for a case?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Of course," he said. "It was... interesting."

"Right," John said, looking away and clearing his throat. He didn't know what to do with the new information. It had been a lot safer to think Liz wouldn't want him in her bed. Now there was a chance again. "Listen, about James..." he started.

"I could stop by," Sherlock said, getting up suddenly. "I should be able to tell from a single look."

"What?" John frowned, then blinked. "You're not seriously talking about Liz. It's fine. I guess I'll find out."

Sherlock shrugged. "Okay, if you prefer to risk embarrassment. Or missing out." He headed for the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. If James comes back, just show him where everything is so he can get started. He's been going on about that stew all day."

"Okay," John said, frowning a little. "Why do you suddenly approve of me going after a colleague, though?" he asked just before Sherlock had reached the door.

Sherlock turned to him, smiling. "Because either way, this will not be a relationship." He paused for a minute, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

…

"That stew really was delicious, James," John praised, smiling as he sat back after emptying his plate completely.

"My mother's recipe," James said, standing up to clear the plates away. He tutted as Sherlock passed him his still half-full plate, but then leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"I'll be off to bed soon," John said. "It's been a long day."

"Oh no," James said, returning from the kitchen. "I've bought ice cream. And cake."

"That's really nice, but I just can't eat another bite," John said. He caught Sherlock's gaze and got up. "You just enjoy your dessert together."

"Cheers," Sherlock said, but then he caught sight of James' pout. He stood up. "At least have a cup of tea with us," he said to John. "It's not that late. And tomorrow is Saturday."

John hesitated and looked over at James. "Are you sure? I really don't mind just going to bed."

Sherlock seemed about to speak, then changed his mind and just nodded. James beamed at him and disappeared back into the kitchen.

John smiled and followed him. "Can I help? I know Sherlock is a lazy sod, but that doesn't mean you have to do everything on your own. You're our guest."

James glanced at him over his shoulder. "Maybe get some cups?" he said. "Do you take sugar or anything?"

"No, black is fine," John said, taking out the cups.

"Sher likes sugar," James said, smiling as he poured the water into the teapot.

"Yeah, I know how he takes his tea. I've lived with him for a few weeks now," John said friendly.

James glanced at him. "Sorry," he said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to imply you didn't or anything. I... I just think it's cute. You know... Someone like him having a sweet tooth."

John smiled. "It's fine. I can see what you mean. I didn't mean to be snappy, I'm just a little tired."

"Yeah?" James asked, arranging the tray. "Tough day at work?" Then he looked John up and down. "You really should try the cake. It'll make you feel better."

John chuckled. "You should have warned me you had it, so I wouldn't have eaten too much stew."

He smiled and looked down at the box, displaying a very rich looking cake, covered in chocolate mousse and dark chocolate shavings. "I guess so," he said. "But still..." he looked up at John, his eyes almost sparkling. "Just a little piece? It really is the most delicious thing ever."

"Oh, have some," Sherlock called from the living room. "He won't give up, you know. He's very persistent."

James frowned and blushed as he looked away.

John lightly put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't mind him. Just a really tiny piece then, okay? Just a taste."

"You don't have to," James muttered. "I didn't mean to be pushy. I... I just do that sometimes. That's how I got that second date with him. I was... persistent."

"Really, it's fine. It _does_ look tasty." He gave James a reassuring smile.

James swallowed and smiled a little. "It does, doesn't it?" he said, putting the cake on the tray and then looking around for plates. As he took them out of the cupboard, his hands shook, making them clatter.

John frowned. "Hey, are you alright?"

James nodded. "I just... he's something else, isn't he?" He glanced towards the living room and lowered his voice. "He's so gorgeous. And tender. But sometimes... he just says these things..." He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm probably just being silly."

John smiled. "I think it's really good for him that he's met you. Just don't let him be too rude to you."

James giggled a little. "You really think so? You don't think I'm a bad influence or anything?"

John shrugged. "It's clear you're taking good care of him. Why would you be a bad influence?"

James glanced towards the living room again. "Didn't he tell you? How we met?"

"Yes, but... You're out of all that, right?"

James nodded. "Of course. When Moran disappeared, I figured it was no longer safe. I'm in IT now. Turns out I'm much better suited for digital security." He laughed. "I never was a convincing thug." He picked up the tray and carried it through to the living room. "Sweets for the sweet," he said, beaming at Sherlock.

John shook his head and went to his chair, giving Sherlock a look to see if he was alright.

Sherlock smiled indulgently as James poured his tea and accepted the large slice of cake he handed him.

James settled next to Sherlock and kissed his cheek before reaching for his own cup.

John smiled. It seemed like Sherlock had calmed down again. Surely they would be able to work out whatever issues Sherlock had as soon as John gave them the chance to talk privately. Despite his full stomach, he reached for his plate and took a bite of the cake. A little too sweet for his taste, but he nodded at James. "It's very good indeed."

James smiled at him and leaned on Sherlock, resting his head on his shoulder.

Sherlock wolfed down his cake and then eyed the rest. "Anyone want more?" He asked, sounding rather hopeful.

"No, you can have it," John chuckled.

James handed the entire plate with the rest of the cake to Sherlock. "Go on," he said. "I'll help you work it off."

Sherlock chuckled and resumed eating.

"See?" John said, laughing. "You can't be a bad influence if you can even make him eat."

James giggled and Sherlock rolled his eyes, his mouth full of chocolate cake.

"Only the sweet stuff," James said, looking fondly at Sherlock. "There's a reason I call him Sugar."

"Let's just not tell his brother." John grinned at Sherlock.

James frowned as Sherlock snorted, almost spitting out a mouthful of cake.

"Why?" James asked as Sherlock coughed and washed down the cake with tea.

John felt just a little triumphant. "He's always teasing Mycroft with his weight and the amounts of cake he can stow away," he explained to James. "But apparently that last bit runs in the family."

James giggled. "Yes. But I don't think it will show on Sherlock. He's got such an amazing metabolism. I mean... Look at him." James looked Sherlock up and down, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

John chuckled. "Well, I'm off to bed. Goodnight and have fun."

"Oh, we will," James said, taking the plate from Sherlock before climbing into his lap.

John hurried to the stairs and suppressed a sigh. It would have been a nice night if he hadn't had to see that last moment.

...

Whatever they were doing downstairs - John didn't want his thoughts to linger on that for too long - they were quiet, and in the morning John felt well rested. Sherlock and James weren't up yet, so he had a quiet breakfast and then went out for a long walk. In the evening, he met up with Mike Stamford and told him about how his tip to Sherlock, months ago, had helped them a great deal in the Moran case and had also resulted in their strange friendship. Mike almost fell off his chair when he mentioned that Sherlock had a boyfriend now, but he agreed that that might be just the thing to keep the genius's mind occupied and away from drugs and danger.

When he came home after a few pints, the couple had disappeared. John didn't know whether they were in Sherlock's bedroom or if they had gone out, but he didn't mind the peace and just took his laptop to bed.

A few hours later, he was woken up by giggling and an urgent "_ssh_" downstairs, but only long enough to put his laptop next to the bed so it couldn't fall off, and to find a better position for his back.

Once again, he was awake before the others, and he had just finished setting the breakfast table when the bedroom door opened.

Sherlock came out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and tousled. He looked at John for a moment and then turned and headed into the bathroom, scratching his head sleepily.

A moment later, James emerged, wearing just a t-shirt and pants. He grinned when he saw John, and blushed a little. "Morning," he said, walking into the living room. "Anything I can do to help?"

John smiled. "No, it's fine. Just relax. I'll go make some eggs if you want."

James shook his head. "You shouldn't be making me breakfast," he said. "I was going to make some for Sherlock anyway, so why don't I make it for all of us?"

"I really don't mind," John shrugged. "I'd be making it anyway."

"Then how about we help each other?" James asked, heading for the kitchen. "I can fry the bacon."

"Alright then," John said. "I'm really not used to so much helpfulness. Except when Mrs Hudson is up here, that is."

James chuckled, taking out the pan. "Yes. Sherlock is not the helpful type, is he?" He glanced towards the bathroom. "And yet we put up with him."

"I guess he has his qualities." John realised what he had said and went bright red. "I mean... as a friend. I didn't want to..."

James looked at him for a moment then giggled. "So you two have never...?" He smiled. "I wasn't quite sure, you know. You seemed so tense when we first met, so I thought I might be imposing on something."

"Oh, no. We really haven't known each other for long. I didn't even know Sherlock was actually interested in... anyone. And I'm not... I mean, I like women." John was still blushing.

James laughed at this and then turned to get the bacon out of the fridge. "Of course you do," he said. "Which I guess is my luck, right?" He winked at John before focusing on the cooking.

John didn't quite know how to react and focused on the eggs. It wasn't as if Sherlock had ever shown any romantic interest in _him_. Had he? Of course not, the very thought was ridiculous. And even then, it wouldn't have changed anything. John was straight and Sherlock was his friend.

James began humming as he turned over the bacon.

Just when he was taking the last slice off the pan, Sherlock came into the kitchen, wearing his robe and towelling his hair. "That smells delicious," he said as he walked over to James who kissed his cheek.

"Good morning, Sugar," he said and Sherlock smiled down at him.

"I just can't keep you out of the kitchen, can I?" he asked teasingly.

"Yes, you can," James said, grinning suggestively. "But we can't do that all the time, right?"

John cleared his throat and put the eggs on plates.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling at James, then went in and sat down at the table. James winked at John and then helped him carry the food and tea in.

For a while, they ate in silence.

"So... Back to work tomorrow, right?" John asked James.

James sighed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I have to." He looked over at Sherlock. "Are you working on anything at the moment?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes and no," he said. "I have a case, but I can't work on it."

"Why?" James asked, looking back and forth between them. "Is something wrong?"

"The government stopped him because he was getting too close to secret stuff," John said.

"Oh," James raised an eyebrow. "Did your brother call you off?"

Sherlock nodded, not looking up from his tea.

"He wasn't all too happy," John said, smiling a little at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "If I could, I'd keep working on it, of course. But he's effectively cut me off from further investigation. Completely sealed off any records from the flight in question. He's even had all the crew placed under oath not to speak a word about what happened on board." He shook his head. "Even I cannot break through my brother's security."

James looked down at his hands, smiling a little.

Sherlock frowned. "What?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Maybe _you _can't," James said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But that does not necessarily mean that no one can."

John frowned. "It's classified information. I mean, his brother is pretty high up on those things."

"I know," James said. "Moran had me working on breaking his system. That's how I found out who Sherlock really is." He smiled at John, blushing a little. "I had actually gotten through when Moran disappeared." Suddenly his proud smile faltered and he turned to Sherlock. "I never used it," he said quickly. "I... I swear. I just got through, but I never touched anything in the system."

Sherlock was studying him intently, not speaking. James looked away, trembling slightly and chewing on his lip.

John's eyes shifted between the two of them.

"I'm sorry," James began to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Can you still do it?" he asked eagerly. "Can you bypass the security?"

"Sherlock, you can't ask him to do that," John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock stared at John. "Why not?" he said. "If he can do it?"

James shook his head. "I don't know if I still can," he whispered. "It was months ago. They may have changed things."

"But there must be a reason why Mycroft doesn't want it known to... _everyone_," John protested. "No offence meant, James. Just... Those are state secrets!"

"No," Sherlock said, slamming his fist down on the table, making the plates jump.

James yelped and almost jumped too. Sherlock frowned and then reached out and put a hand over his. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's just... Two kind and innocent people died because of this. I think they deserve to have the truth be known. Them and their families."

James looked him in the eyes and smiled. Then he nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'll help you if I can."

"Sherlock," John said, but then he just sighed and shook his head.

Sherlock ignored John as he got to his feet. "What will you need?" he asked. "Can you use any computer?"

James nodded and Sherlock disappeared into his room.

John followed him. "Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "I got together with James because I thought he could help me with the Levington case. But now it turns out he can not only help me find out the truth about what happened on that plane, but do it right under my brother's nose. What's not to like about that?"

John raised an eyebrow. "That's really all this was about? _Using_ him? I can't believe you."

"What?" Sherlock strode into his bedroom and got the laptop off the nightstand. The bed was quite a mess, the sheets lying bunched up in one corner, the covers spread over the floor. "I told you already. He helps me think. Focus."

"Yeah, but..." John groaned. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that you're going to hurt his feelings? And, anyway, do you really think it's safe to let him into information like that?"

"Why would his feelings get hurt? I asked him to do it and he said yes." Sherlock shook his head. "Besides, if Mycroft wanted those things to be kept secret, he could have told them to me, so I would not have had to seek outside help."

He brought the laptop into the living room. "Here you go, darling," he said. "Work your magic."

John almost groaned in frustration. Sherlock really didn't seem to understand that people didn't like being used.

He didn't feel like watching them work on breaking Mycroft's security, but on the other hand, he couldn't just walk away. If he was here to keep an eye on them, he could perhaps intervene if James got too close to information that wasn't related to Bellinger.

Sherlock looked over James' shoulder as he worked. It didn't take long before he jumped up in excitement. "That's it," he cried. "Copy it. All of it. And then get out before you're spotted."

"All of it?" John frowned.

Sherlock nodded. "I don't have time to sort through it. It's too risky." He smiled at John, his eyes sparkling eagerly. "And who knows what other useful stuff might be in there."

"Sherlock, if they track this back and they most probably _will_, we're all in trouble."

"They won't," Sherlock said. "And even if they do, I'm the only one it will point to. Relax, John. You and James are perfectly safe."

"What use will it even be to you? The Forrestal case is closed and I can't imagine that Mycroft let the killer walk free if he knew who it was," John said, but he knew it was a lost battle.

"I want to know," Sherlock said, not even looking up as his eyes flew over the information on the screen.

"Maybe at some point you should learn that you can't always have what you want," John mumbled.

"Done," James muttered, looking down at his hands. "I... I think I got everything."

"Thank you," Sherlock exclaimed, pushing him out of the way, so he could get at the computer. "You really are a gem."

James frowned and looked over at John for a moment before turning and running into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John gave Sherlock a pointed look, but he didn't even seem to notice, focused as he was on the screen. "Sherlock. Stop being an idiot and go talk to James. _Now_."

Sherlock looked up at him, blinking. "What?" he said, confused.

"James. Your boyfriend," John said, raising his eyebrows sarcastically. "The way it looks now, you've been keeping him here a whole weekend just to get to this. Just to use him. He's hurt. Who wouldn't be? So stop being such a retard and go make it up!"

"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock said, beginning to look slightly alarmed. "We're just having fun. And he said he would help me. I don't see what all the fuss is about..."

"Well, he does. And I'm pretty sure he also thinks he's in a relationship with you, so go talk things out." John bent his head towards the bedroom door.

Sherlock looked in the direction he was indicating and frowned. "Are you serious?" he asked. "You want me to go... make up with him?"

"Don't you want to stay with him?" John asked, frowning.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I mean... I like having him around. He's really useful. And not boring. But..." He shook his head slowly. "I really have no idea."

"If you don't talk to him, you may be missing your chance," John pointed out. "And you should really tell him that you're not sure, too, rather than leading him on."

After a brief staring contest, Sherlock huffed and got to his feet. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll talk to him."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock knocked on the door to his bedroom, but there was no reply. After a moment's wait, he opened the door a little. "James?" he called softly. "Are you okay?"

There was a loud sniff from the direction of his bed and he opened the door wider to look in. At first he didn't see him, but then he realised the heap of blankets on the bed seemed to be breathing and making small sniffling noises.

Frowning, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He went over to the bed and sat down, reaching out his hand to pat what he hoped was James' head. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The pile moved in a way that may have been a nod, but was not in the place Sherlock had expected. Quickly he moved his hand to the right place and stroked the blanket gently.

"John said I might have hurt your feelings," Sherlock said, uncertainly. "Did I?"

There was another movement, this time right underneath his hand. He was pretty sure James was shaking his head, but as the movement was followed by a loud sob, he suspected the man wasn't being entirely truthful.

So he took a deep breath, found the right emotional tone and said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to use you. I was just so happy you could help me. It really meant a lot to me."

The heap went quiet and then shifted until James' face, his eyes red and swollen, his cheeks streaked with tears, peered out. "Really?" he asked, his voice sounding oddly choked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said. "I wouldn't have trusted anyone to do that but you. I mean... he is my brother after all." He reached out and wiped a tear off James' cheek with a fingertip, then pressed it to his lips.

"I'm sorry I upset you," he said. "The last thing I would ever want to do is make you cry."

"Why?" James asked, his eyes going round and hopeful. Like a dog begging for a treat.

He wanted something, that was clear. But what? It took Sherlock less than a second to figure it out, and before he had had time to consider, the words had already left him:

"Because I love you, silly."

James made an odd squeaking sound and then practically launched himself out from under the blankets and into Sherlock's arms, kissing him so hard that Sherlock feared he might somehow actually suck out his tongue.

After a very long kiss, during which Sherlock had somehow ended up on his back on the bed with James lying on top of his chest, the shorter man pulled back. Breathless and blushing, he beamed down at Sherlock. "I love you too," he said. Then he kissed him again and Sherlock, figuring he might as well take advantage of the situation, began pulling his t-shirt up. James moaned and broke the kiss just long enough to let Sherlock pull the t-shirt off him, then latched onto his lips again, fumbling to untie the belt of his robe.

Two hours later, Sherlock sort of registered that James kissed his cheeks and whispered the same words in his ear, but he was too worn out and just rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke up, he was alone, and James' clothes were gone. He let out a sigh of relief as he sat up. Having James around had proved even more convenient than he had thought it would be, but he was really looking forward to some time alone. Just having a cuppa and getting a look at all that delicious data James had gotten him.

James would be out of town until Wednesday and by then, Sherlock would probably be ready to play boyfriend again. Or end it, if the data proved to be enough to solve the case.

He stretched and then picked up his robe. As he walked into the living room he ruffled his hair, trying to clear his head of the last remnants of sleepiness. He was looking down and almost walked into John who was standing in the door to the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Enjoyed yourself?" His tone was colder than Sherlock had ever heard him.

Sherlock frowned. "Yeah," he said. "I guess so. James is so nimble."

"_Nimble_," John repeated. "But that's not what you told him, is it? It wasn't just 'James, you're good at this'. You had to tell the poor sod you _loved_ him. _Do_ you?"

Sherlock glared at him before pushing past him to get into the kitchen. "Were you listening at the door?" he asked, sourly. This was definitely none of John's business.

"Of course not," John said, at least having the decency to sound disgusted at the thought. "But when James returned from your bedroom a few hours ago, he was so happy he just had to tell someone all about it. And unfortunately I was the only person around."

"Oh…" Sherlock hadn't foreseen that. He should have known John would not approve. He tried his best smile. "Oops?" he suggested.

Apparently not the right answer. John stared up at him in shock. "That's all you have to say? This is a big deal, Sherlock. Clearly not for you, but you should have seen him."

"I did see him. Quite a lot of him. He did indeed seem very happy. And quite determined to show me." He smiled at the memory. "Anyway, if it made him feel so happy, then what's the harm?"

"The fact that you don't love him. Or maybe you do, I don't know, but before you went in there, you told me that you weren't certain. And now you've given him hope. You've made him think he's the most important thing in the world to you, while there is still a chance you may crush his heart later. That's a lot more than a bit not good." John sighed.

"You're missing the point, John," Sherlock said.

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted him. "_You_ are missing the point."

"No, John. The point is that James was upset. Because of me. Now he's happy. Very happy. Also because of me. Yes, he may get upset again. Most people do on a fairly regular basis. But that does not negate the fact that right now, he's as happy as can be. Thanks to me." Sherlock flashed him a quick triumphant smile and went over to the fridge, pushing aside the box of toes to see if there was anything edible at the back.

John shook his head. "You really think you're the best thing that has ever happened to the world, don't you? It's one thing making him happy. You sure have a point there. But this is too important. This is _messing_ with him. You should be honest."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, examining the small tub of yoghurt, trying to determine if it was still good. "When I _was _honest, he got upset and you were angry about that too. Can I do anything right?"

"Maybe you just shouldn't _use_ people like that. Like they're just tools. They have feelings, you know." John was clearly getting angrier again.

"If he was just a tool for me, I wouldn't worry about him being happy, would I?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. Then he paused, frowning. That was actually true. If he had not cared about James at all, why had his crying bothered him so much? "Oh…" he said as the realisation hit him. "I _do_ care about him…" The yoghurt and the spoon he had just picked up fell unnoticed from his hands.

John raised his eyebrows. "And you realise that _now_. Well, I guess it's something." He turned to clean up the yoghurt before Sherlock walked through it.

Sherlock just stood there, smiling a little. "So that's what it feels like," he said, checking his own pulse.

John frowned a little as he stood upright again and washed out the cloth with which he had wiped up the yoghurt. "So you've really never been in love before?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I've certainly never felt like this before. I mean, it's an actual physical sensation." He caught John's expression and rolled his eyes. "No… What I mean is… Just thinking about him. It actually causes involuntary muscle response. Look." He pointed at the corner of his mouth that was pulling back and up in what was turning into a slightly goofy grin.

"It's like I cannot help smiling. Just because I speak his name." He considered for a moment then tried it. "James…" He chuckled and nodded as he felt his grin widen even further.

John snorted incredulously, but then managed to hold back his laughter and to more or less neutralise his expression. "That's what ordinary people call being in love," he nodded.

"That's it?" Sherlock said, still grinning in spite of himself. "Just… smiling without wanting to? All the time?"

"Not just that," John said, actually looking amused now. "Are you being serious now, or is this just a way to account for what you said so I'll shut up about it? Have you really never _liked_ anyone?"

"Sure I've like people," Sherlock said. "Well… Not a lot of people, but a few. But not like this. Not this… silly, giddy feeling. It's…" He frowned. "It's kind of undignified. Do people really feel like this all the time? How do they ever get anything done?"

John smirked. "Some cope with it and some don't, I guess. It can be quite… intense."

Sherlock nodded. "It does explain a lot of behaviours I've found to be completely irrational in the past. They still are, of course, but now I see their cause." He glanced around. "I should take a blood sample. I don't know what my hormones are getting up to, but it'll be useful for reference on future cases."

John frowned and then nodded slowly. "Yeah, you do that…"

Sherlock found the necessary equipment and held it out to John. "Will you do it?" he asked. "My hands seem to be a bit shaky at the moment. I wonder if that is a side effect. Or if it's just a sign that I should probably eat something soon."

John rolled his eyes. "I'll do it if you have something to eat first."

Sherlock nodded and looked around. Then he giggled. "Oh, that sweet thing," he said as he went over to open a cupboard that had not been properly closed. Someone had filled it to the brim with biscuits, chocolate and cakes. He got out a bar of orange flavoured chocolate and unwrapped it as he sat down at the table. "Will this do?" he asked John before biting into it.

"For now," John said, looking a little exasperated. "I _did_ wonder what he was doing in the kitchen before he left," he muttered, more to himself than to Sherlock.

Once John had drawn the blood, Sherlock sent him off to the lab to ask Molly to take care of it. Then he settled down with a pot of tea, a pack of biscuits and his laptop, to get started on the enormous amount of sensitive information James had procured for him.

When John returned two hours later, Sherlock was pacing the flat, having pulled so much on his hair that his scalp was tingling. He whirled on John the moment he saw him. "This is big," he said, rushing to his friend, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to the laptop. "This is the biggest thing ever." He pointed at the screen and then slumped down in the chair.

John blinked and frowned at the laptop. "What am I looking at?"

"Bellinger," Sherlock huffed. "He's been under investigation for over a year. He…" He gave John a meaningful look. "He's been working for the other side. Do you understand what this means?"

John stared at him. "He was a traitor?"

Sherlock nodded. "The worst kind. He was leaking information to not only one enemy of Britain but at least three, maybe more. He was in it for the money. Nothing else." He scrolled down the long list on the screen. "That's how Mycroft found out. Bellinger was spending a lot. Much more than he should be able to. How can someone so smart be such an idiot?"

"One sometimes wonders." John cleared his throat. "So… I guess that's important for the Forrestal case?"

Sherlock jumped up and began pacing again. "Are you kidding me? Of course it's important. It's the whole reason. For their deaths. And for Mycroft pulling the plug on the investigation. Don't you see it?" He looked at John. Surely he understood. It was so obvious. Wasn't it?

John frowned. "Had he given the Forrestals information?"

"What?" Sherlock frowned, then shook his head. "No. Of course not. Why would he? They were just an ordinary dumb couple. No, their death was entirely accidental. But how they died is very, very bad. For my brother. And possibly for the country."

"Because the poison got onto the plane through all of security?" John was clearly at a loss. But then his expression shifted in realisation. "Unless they're behind it…"

"Yes!" Sherlock cried, grabbing John by his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. "That's it. Mycroft didn't want the deaths investigated, because he is behind it. Or at least someone he works very closely with is. But probably Mycroft. Yes. It must be Mycroft. The steward wasn't paid off by some foreign assassin. He," he pointed to the screen at a name that was underlined, "was actually planted there by Mycroft. He was never a steward, but a government operative. That's why Mycroft wouldn't let me talk to any of the crew. They could have told me that he was not an employee of the airline, but someone they had never seen before. And maybe even that he wasn't very good at his job."

John pulled out of the embrace and blinked, looking a little dazed. "So he wanted to poison Bellinger, but made an enormous mistake."

"Yes. He did not dare serve the drink himself, because that would too quickly point to him when Bellinger died shortly after landing. So he mixed the drink, but let one of the others serve it. Her." He pointed at another name. "She quit her job a few days after the incident. In fact, it was her last day at work, as she called in sick the next morning. Guess where she is now."

John shrugged. "Where?"

"Australia. Convenient, isn't it? So far away." Sherlock chuckled. "Oh Mycroft, you've been a very bad boy this time. Killing off people. And on a plane no less. If word of this got out, it would cause a panic."

John's face darkened a little at that. "James has seen this information too, right? What if he tells someone about it?"

"He only copied it. He did not have time to look through it, let alone read it," Sherlock said dismissively. "He'd have to have eidetic memory to have gleaned any kind of information from what he saw." He smiled, shaking his head. "James is a gifted hacker, but he's hardly a genius."

"Right." John frowned a little. "So what are you going to do now? Confront Mycroft?"

"Oh, that'll be brilliant," Sherlock said. "But not yet. I need proof first. Proof that does not involve James getting me this information."

"But there won't be any proof, will there?" John asked. "I can imagine Mycroft took care of that, too."

"Except for the stewardess. Jenny Smith. She must know something. Otherwise it would not have been necessary to send her so far away."

John nodded. "So you'll contact her?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. But it won't be easy. Not without Mycroft knowing about it."

"Right. I forgot he checks your mail," John said. "So… We have to go to Australia?"

"No," Sherlock said. "We can't. Not without arousing Mycroft's suspicion." He considered for a moment, then checked the time. "I'm going to call James. He should be home now." He took his phone and went over to lie on the sofa while he waited for James to pick up.

John nodded and disappeared to the kitchen.

"Hi, Darling," Sherlock said, smiling. "Any chance of you getting a couple of days off any time soon?"

…

"So you're really dragging James half across the world just to help you spite your brother," John sighed as he noticed the flight tickets lying on the printer that evening.

Sherlock grinned. "No, I'm taking him to Mexico because he's always wanted to go and it will make him happy," he said, carrying his suitcase out of his bedroom. "We're leaving Thursday."

"Why Mexico?" John frowned.

Sherlock frowned at him. "I just told you. He's always wanted to go there." Then he shook his head. "No idea why that is, of course, but he was so thrilled when I asked him to go on a trip with me."

"No. You needed to go to Australia. You must have a reason. One that apparently you haven't told your boyfriend." John shook his head.

Sherlock sat down at the laptop and began checking flight times. "Yes," he said. "And while we're in Mexico I'll just pop on down to Australia and have a little chat with Ms Smith."

"And you'll just leave James behind?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock looked up at John. "You don't want me to bring him along, do you? Get him involved?"

"I only want you to be honest to him," John said, looking tired. "This... This isn't fair."

"Why not?" Sherlock said, checking the return flights. "He knows what I do. That I'm always working. And he still gets a trip out of it. It's not like I won't be spending any time with him."

"But is it so hard to just tell him why you're actually doing this?"

"No," Sherlock said. What was with John? Why was this such a big deal to him? "But if I tell him, don't you think it might upset him? Wasn't that what I supposed to avoid doing?"

"It might upset him more if he finds out later that you didn't tell him everything," John said. "Not that it's any of my business. I'm just not sure he was the right person to bring along."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and chuckled. Oh, so that was why. "Jealous?" he asked, teasingly. It was kind of sweet that John would want to go with him, but he couldn't do that. Not with his new job and everything. And it would look a lot more suspicious than Sherlock taking his boyfriend on a trip.

John stared at him as if he had sprouted an extra head. "What? _No_! That's absolutely _not_ what I'm saying."

Sherlock nodded, still grinning. "Of course not," he said. "You're just really concerned for James, right? Because you like him so much." He shook his head. "About a week ago you thought he might be trying to kill me. Or sell me to Moran again. You even spied on him, remember?"

John looked angry. "I'm just trying to help you make this work. But if you know what you're doing, fine. You don't have to listen to me." He turned to leave the room.

Sherlock huffed and shook his head, focusing back on the laptop.

…

Sherlock was grinning to himself as he made his way to the staff's cafeteria. This was a great idea. He could help John out with this ring-situation and either get him a good friend or a potential lover. Either would surely please him and take his mind of all these silly issues he had about Sherlock and James.

He looked around the room and spotted John sitting at a table in a corner with a few other people. He smiled at him and waved as he approached.

John's eyes widened and then he frowned, giving him a questioning look.

Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat down. "So," he asked. "Which one is it?"

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, before he looked at Sherlock with an almost pleading expression. "What are you doing here?" he asked between his teeth, then quickly held up his hand. "No, don't explain it." He glanced up at his colleagues, then continued in a low voice. "You can't just barge in at my work."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not barging in," he said. "I'm visiting my friend. No one stopped me."

"You're not here for me. You're only here to show off." John was looking up at the other people in the room again, shifting on his chair.

Sherlock almost got angry at those words. "I am here to help you," he said. "Because you are my friend." Why was John acting like this? Was he still sore about not being asked to go on the trip with him? Probably. He'd better not bring it up, though. Not here.

"Right." John let out a small sigh. "Listen, Sherlock, I really appreciate the sentiment and I'm grateful you came all the way here. But it's really not necessary. Let's... let's just have lunch, okay, and then you can go back home."

Sherlock sighed and looked around. Then he smiled. "It's her, isn't it?" he whispered, indicating a woman a few tables away. "Introduce me," he said. "I only need a brief look."

John shook his head. "Let it go."

Sherlock smiled as he saw the woman turn to them. He nodded and then his grin widened as she approached them.

"Who's your friend, John?" she said, looking Sherlock up and down.

For a moment, John's shoulders sagged, before he smiled at her and said, "Ah, this is my flatmate, Sherlock. I told you about him. Sherlock, this is Liz."

Sherlock stood up and took her hand in his, running his thumb over the back of her fingers. His eyes flickered down to the ring on the chain around her neck before he met her gaze, smiling. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.

"Likewise," she said, then let go of his hand and looked down at John. "A bunch of us are going out for a pint tonight. Would you like to come along?" she asked.

"Oh, er..." He quickly looked up at Sherlock, then back at her. "Sure."

"You can bring your friend if you want," she said and winked at Sherlock before turning to leave.

Sherlock sat down, smiling smugly at John. He nodded. "Sure thing," he said under his breath.

John sighed. "Yes. Well. Thanks, I guess."

"No problem," Sherlock said, leaning back in the chair. "You could have her over while James and I are gone. Have the flat all to yourselves."

John looked doubtful. "I don't know. I should find out if she's in a relationship, because I'm really not planning to become a third party somewhere. It was easier when I thought I didn't have a chance."

"How is this not easy?" Sherlock asked. "She is actually advertising for no-strings sex. And you can still look for a more steady partner." Why did John always have to make everything so complicated?

"It's that my last 'no-strings' situation got rather complicated." John bit his lip and looked at his sandwich.

"Oh..." Of course. Sherlock frowned. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it that way." He considered for a moment. "But she's not a close friend. And she must be used to things like this, so maybe she'll handle it better than... than that last time."

"I'll think about it," John said, before taking a bite.

Sherlock nodded. "I hope you give her a chance," he said. "She did seem really nice." Just what you need, he didn't add.

John looked at him with something close to surprise, then stood up and picked up the rest of his sandwich. "Time to get back to work."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A tennis match. A nature documentary. Some old soap that looked like they had been broadcasting even the repeats for more than thirty years. Couldn't there be a good action film somewhere, so he could see some blood and relax? Apparently that was impossible on an early Monday afternoon. If only he were staying in a decent hotel with video on demand or at least a dvd player. But no. Everything for the sake of anonymity. Then couldn't his boss at least have put him somewhere out in the wild where he could spend the time hunting animals? Or somewhere where they had a gym?

He felt like a caged beast. Neglected by its owner.

Sebastian glared at his phone. Five text messages sent since Moriarty's phone call. None on the first day; he wasn't needy. But then he had reached out. Of course he didn't immediately expect an answer; he knew that his boss was busy. But he had hoped for _something_ after a whole weekend, just some news from the real world, from the work that was going on. Yet Moriarty never answered.

Sebastian knew his boss must have noticed all the texts by now. Maybe he figured that his Tiger had not deserved his earlier treat over the phone, and wanted to let him know it wouldn't happen often. Even though Sebastian was certain that he had enjoyed it too. The distance had made him a lot more tolerant about letting his Kitten humiliate him. He must have loved it.

Of course Moriarty could have taken an important job, but Sebastian doubted that there would be anything that could keep his mind so occupied for several days that he couldn't even type out a quick message. It would be extremely unusual at the least.

Maybe Sebastian should just call him and have a wank while the voicemail recorded. See how Moriarty liked hearing Sebastian come without having anything to do with it and no means to change anything about it. It would be fun if it could actually distract him.

Sebastian was still considering that plan when suddenly his phone buzzed. A text. Finally.

'_It's time Tiger. Got something for you. Start packing. I'll be sending you the details tonight.'_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

'_Are you sure you're not coming with us? Liz invited you again this afternoon_,' John texted, before he got up from his desk and went to the bathroom to refresh himself a bit, as he would go straight to the pub from the hospital.

When he returned, Sherlock had answered.

'_I can't. Our plane leaves very early and I still need to make sure that I will be able to track down Jenny Smith quickly once I'm there. SH_'

'_Alright. I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight, so I may not see you before you leave. Have fun and a good trip. And be careful_,_'_ John answered, then pocketed his phone and straightened his hair one last time before he left his office.

A small group of people had already collected around Liz when John arrived at the pub. He smiled and waved at her when he caught her eye.

Liz smiled back and waved him over. "Hi, John," she said. "Come meet my friends." Her friends turned out to be a group of three girls and one man who, it seemed, was together with the short redhead to Liz' right.

"Hi," John said, smiling. "Nice to meet you all."

They all shook hands with him and then made room so he could join them at the small round table. Liz ordered a round of drinks and an hour and a half was spent swapping funny stories from work and about mutual friends, though Liz made sure to keep John included, filling in some information here and there so he would get the jokes.

When the other guy, David, and his girlfriend had gone to get another round, Liz leaned over to her friend Dana and said, loud enough for John to hear: "Too bad John's friend couldn't come. He's quite the character. Gorgeous too."

Dana giggled and smiled at John. "Oh," she said. "A friend? Or a... _friend_?"

"Oh, no, he's really just a friend," John answered. "I'm just staying over at his place until I've found a flat of my own."

"How did you and Sherlock meet anyway?" Liz asked. "He's obviously not a doctor and... he doesn't look like a soldier either."

"Sherlock?" Dana said, staring at him. "Sherlock Holmes? _He_'s your flatmate?"

"Yes," John said, a little surprised. "He's a detective and he contacted me for a case when I was in Afghanistan. You know him?" he asked Dana.

She seemed about to speak, but then, as the others returned with drinks, she shook her head. "No," she said. "I've just heard of him. Once." She shrugged. "It's the kind of name you remember, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John nodded, taking a sip of his new drink. "Quite unusual. Just like him."

The talk turned to other things for a while, but when it was starting to get late and the table was filling up with empty glasses and bottles, Liz leaned over, put her hand on John's knee and whispered - or rather tried to, but her judgement seemed a bit impaired, so everyone at the table probably heard what she said: "That friend of yours. I hope he can join us some other time. Maybe just the three of us." She giggled and winked, leaving little doubt as to what she had in mind.

John couldn't help but starting to giggle too, as he had had his own share of the drinks. "I'm sorry," he said. "He won't want to. Got a boyfriend."

"What?" Liz said, pouting slightly. "Sherlock's got a boyfriend? You're pulling my leg."

"No, I'm not! He's with James. Wait, I can show you, they've nicked my phone last night. I left it in the living room and suddenly I found a whole new set of pictures on it." He rolled his eyes and almost dropped the phone as he took it out, making him giggle again.

When he showed Liz the most decent picture, she let out a loud "Awh," and took the phone. "Aren't those two precious?" she said, showing it to the others. Dana screamed and dropped her glass, which smashed on the floor.

"That... That man..." she stammered.

John stared at her with wide eyes. "Okay, Sherlock can be scary, but that's usually only when he starts talking..."

"Not Sherlock," Dana said, her voice trembling as she pointed at the picture. "That one... Murphy. I've seen him before. He... He works for that thug... Moran..."

John felt himself sobering up at the shock. "How do you know about Moran?"

"I..." Dana said, hesitantly. "I had a friend who... knew him..."

"God. What happened to her?" John asked.

Dana looked down at her hands. "She died," she whispered.

Liz, who was the only other one to hear this, gasped. "Oh my god," she said. "What happened?"

"Moran happened, probably," John frowned.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered, not looking up. "Moran had gone. That's why she thought it might be safe to stop hiding. But he might come back. So she wanted out of the country. Needed money. So..." She made a sound kind of like a sob. "She tried to make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" John asked softly.

"She said she had some information. That would make it impossible for Moran to ever return. She'd offer to keep silent if they gave her enough money to move away. She'd swear never to tell or return to England. If they didn't pay, she'd... go to him." She pointed at Sherlock's image.

"God," John said, shaking his head. "She should have come to him right away."

"That's what I said," Dana said, looking up at him. "But she said that he didn't seem quite... trustworthy. So she got in touch with _him_ instead. Murphy. He said he might be able to help."

"But he doesn't work for Moran anymore, right? That's what he told Sherlock, and he must have good reason to believe him," John said.

Dana shrugged. "I don't know. He said he could help her. Or knew someone who could. I'm not sure. She went with him and we never saw her again. Thought she'd gotten her money and split. But then that police bloke showed up a week later." She sniffed and Liz pulled her into a tight hug.

John bit his lip. "James should know something about it, then. Why did he never tell Sherlock?"

The subject had quite effectively killed the mood and Liz offered to take Dana home, while David and the other two women wanted to move on to a nightclub they knew. The look Liz gave him, told John that it might not be his kind of club, so he declined their invitation and went home.

When he arrived at the flat, he wasn't quite sure what to do. It seemed important to tell Sherlock what he had learned, but everything was quiet at the flat. Probably he was asleep, preparing himself for the case abroad, when he wouldn't allow himself to sleep much. And it was only a few hours before he would have to leave. John decided he wouldn't wake him up. He could tell him later, in a text, and ask him then if James had indeed never told him that he had met Jane Levington. Right now, John wasn't up for much talking anyway. Going out this late after a day of work had exhausted him, and he was convinced that he would fall asleep as soon as he hit his pillow.

Yet when he was lying in bed, the thoughts popped up again. If James was still interfering with Moran's business, the colonel and his boss would surely come after him and Sherlock at some point. And even worse, if James was still working for Moran… But surely Sherlock would not make a mistake like that. He saw through everyone and everything. Only a genius like himself would perhaps be able to fool him.

It was almost an hour later when John finally fell asleep.

...

A man and a woman were standing in a hall. She was talking to him, looking earnest, but he was just grinning all the time and obviously not listening to what she said. He looked familiar, but it took a while before John realised whom he reminded him of. And even then, something was seriously off. One moment it looked like it could well be him, but then that insane flame returned to his eyes, and he didn't even look one bit like James. And then, without any warning, the man jumped the young woman. She fell back, and he turned into an animal, devilish looking and dragging off pieces of her flesh with his teeth and claws. And John was screaming, he couldn't stop, but he had to watch it all. And then finally the man had finished, leaving the body like Sherlock and John had found her at the crime scene. And the man, crouched next to the body, took a step back and looked up at John, smiling. It was James' smile, but his dark eyes were completely dead.

John woke up with a jolt, breathing hard. His throat was raw as if he had indeed been screaming, and he groaned as he rolled onto his back. He couldn't even remember having a nightmare that wasn't about the war. What had all that been about? None of the crime scenes they had been to had affected him so, and this one had been some time ago. It didn't make sense, anyway. James, Sherlock's sweet and sensitive boyfriend, committing a murder like that? And Sherlock had been certain that the killer was Moran's boss, anyway. So what was James doing in his drea… Oh. _It would take a genius to fool Sherlock Holmes._ God, no. That couldn't be true.

Within the second, John was out of bed, but a quick glance at his alarm clock made him wince. Sherlock had probably already arrived at the airport. He tried calling him as he dashed down the stairs to barge into his bedroom, but his flatmate was indeed gone and he didn't pick up his phone. Damn it. John ran back up to his own room and jumped into his clothes. He had to reach Sherlock before he took off. It had only been a dream, he could still be wrong. But he needed to at least warn his friend about what he suspected, before he was out of the country with James. He couldn't let him take the risk. If he put everything together, it looked more and more like it hadn't been a coincidence that Murphy had been around to pick up Sherlock, back when he had just escaped from Mycroft. Maybe he had checked Sherlock's identity long before, and simply waited for his chance. The more John thought about it, the more what he dreaded started to make sense.

At the airport, John jumped out of the cab and almost forgot to pay, so he was called back and lost a precious minute. Then he ran into the entrance hall and looked up at the notice board. To his relief, Sherlock's flight had not yet started boarding, but it couldn't be long now. For a moment, John hesitated, then he rushed to one of the desks.

"The cheapest ticket you have. I don't care where it's going," he said hurriedly.

Unfortunately, the woman behind the desk seemed in much less of a hurry, asking him one irrelevant question after another until John was almost squirming where he stood. When he could finally turn away with his ticket, the notification of Sherlock's flight had changed into 'boarding'.

John groaned at the sight of the security queue, but there was no other way to get to the other side and reach Sherlock. Time was running short by the time it was his turn to go through, and of course the buzzer went off as he walked past the metal detector.

"Sir, can you please go to the left for…"

He didn't have time for this. He leapt for the belt, grabbed his phone and wallet, and ran.

People were shouting after him and he heard that someone was chasing him, but he didn't look back and sprinted in the direction of Sherlock's gate. The signs led him to a descending escalator, but his pursuer was still following, so he kept running, holding onto the railing so he wouldn't fall. Then suddenly, below him, he caught sight of a familiar head of messy curls in a long queue of people.

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock looked up, frowning in confusion at hearing his name, before he spotted John's mad waving.

"Sherlock, wait! There's something I need to tell you!"

Sherlock held up a hand to his ear and shook his head, indicating that he couldn't hear what John was saying.

The security woman had caught up with John and grabbed his arm. "Sir, if you would be so kind to come with me," she ordered, but John kept struggling. "Please," he said quickly. "I need to reach that man. He's in danger." Then he turned away from her again to look down. "Don't trust James!" he shouted.

Sherlock gave another little shake of his head and then shrugged at James, before both of them waved at John and stepped out towards their plane.

John's shoulders sagged. He had been too late. The woman was dragging him along now, but he hardly noticed, still staring down at Sherlock's gate.

…

It took a few hours and even more warnings before the airport security finally let John go. They had been suspicious at his explanation, but in the end the fact that he wasn't carrying anything illegal made them give in. To his horror, the woman who had run after him walked him out with a lecture about when she herself had been lovestruck and did silly things, but how he shouldn't let it influence other people and make them feel unsafe at an airport.

Sherlock was well on the way to Mexico now, sitting next to possibly the most dangerous man they had ever met, without having a clue. And what would happen when they arrived there, if John was right?

He took his phone out to check for messages, since he had simply pocketed it right after he got it back from security. Two missed calls from an unknown number, but no voicemail messages. Frowning, John tried calling back, but he was immediately directed to an unpersonalised voicemail. He sighed, wishing he could call Sherlock, but he wouldn't be able to reach him now he was on the plane.

His next thought was to call Mycroft. But then, he still couldn't prove anything against Murphy, and Sherlock absolutely wanted to avoid Mycroft's control on this particular trip. John could call Sherlock as soon as he had landed, but James might notice that something was off in Sherlock's reaction, which would endanger Sherlock even more. And John had seen often enough how James leaned in to read along when Sherlock got a text, so that certainly wasn't an option.

None of that gave Sherlock any back-up, anyway. There was only one solution that could really make a difference. If only the security would let him pass a second time on the same day and wouldn't accuse him of stalking.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sherlock tried to hang back, but the other passengers were pushing them along and James, eager to get on the plane, was pulling on his arm. He couldn't see John anymore and he had not been able to hear what he had been trying to tell him. It must have been really important, for John to have followed him to the airport. But why hadn't he just called?

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, but it wasn't there.

"James, stop," he said. "My phone. I must have dropped it."

James sighed. "We can't go back for it now," he said. "Or we'll miss the plane."

"But I need it," Sherlock protested, trying to see the floor behind them as the crowd was dwindling. "I've got everything in there."

"It will be found," James said. "And handed in somewhere. You can pick it up when we return. Meanwhile you can use my phone."

Sherlock turned to him. "Can I borrow it now?" he asked.

James nodded and reached into his pocket, but right then a woman waved them along.

"Please," she said. "You must board now. We are about to close the gate."

Resolutely, James pulled him forward, almost running down the narrow corridor to the walkway that led onto the plane.

Once they were seated, he got out his phone and handed it to Sherlock. "You better hurry," he said. "You'll have to turn it off in a few minutes."

Sherlock nodded and dialled John's number. He let it ring until it went to voicemail, then tried again. Frowning, he handed the phone back to James, just as the announcement started about switching mobiles and other electronic devices to fly mode.

James looked at him. "Something wrong?" he asked, taking Sherlock's hand.

"Probably not," Sherlock said, looking out the window.

...

James soon fell asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. But Sherlock could not relax. He kept thinking about John. Something had been very wrong or he would not have been at the airport. He had seemed frantic, almost desperate, as he tried to tell Sherlock something. Something important. But there had been too much noise to hear what he said and he had been too far away for Sherlock to read his lips.

If only he had had his phone. He tried to remember the last time he had it. He remembered using it in the taxi on his way to James' place, checking his mail. He was pretty sure he'd still had it when he got into James' car, but did not remember feeling or seeing it since then. So logicall it would still be in his car. At the parking lot at the airport. Well… At least it was safe there from being stolen and hacked. Unless the car was stolen or broken into, of course, but the security in the long-term lot was pretty high.

But it was definitely a problem that John could not reach him. Had not been able to reach him. Would John figure out that the two missed calls were from James' phone and that he could reach Sherlock on that number? To him it seemed obvious, but sometimes John could be a bit… slow.

He sighed. He should have left a message, letting John know it was him who had been calling. He'd do that the moment they landed. Hopefully he'd reach John and find out what it had all been about. And if not, he'd leave him a message to get in touch as soon as he could.

There was nothing he could do now, and he tried to settle down for a nap, but sleep would not come. So he glanced around and soon knew the personality and history of all other passengers in his line of sight and all of the cabin crew. He considered trying to move so he could find new subjects, but James was leaning on him and he'd probably wake him if he tried to get out of his seat.

So he closed his eyes, resigned to several hours ahead of utter boredom.

James let out a single soft snore and Sherlock could not help but smile. Images of the night they had recently spent together drifted through his mind and these finally distracted him enough from his worries and boredom that he was able to drift into a light dose, filled with very pleasant half-dreams.

…

James yawned and stretched and Sherlock woke with a start. "What?" he muttered, looking around before rubbing his eyes. "Are we there yet?"

"Soon, love," James said and leaned over to kiss him. "Just another hour or so."

Sherlock yawned too. "I think I need the loo," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Can you maybe get me some tea or water?"

"Sure thing," James said, pushing the button to summon a stewardess.

When Sherlock returned, James was looking up at him with an apologetic frown as he held out a bottle of apple juice. "She said they were out of water and they only had fruit tea. I wasn't sure if you like fruit tea, so I got you this." He bit his lip, clearly nervous that he had gotten it wrong.

Sherlock smiled and took the bottle as he sat down. "It's fine," he said, and then, as an afterthought, gave James a kiss.

"I… I opened it," James said. "Once she handed it to me, I realised I was thirsty, so I took a sip. I hope that's okay."

Sherlock laughed, unscrewing the lid. "Of course it is," he said. "Don't be silly." It turned out that apple juice was just what he needed and he finished off half the bottle in one go, making James laugh.

"You'll be needing the loo again before we land, if you keep that up," he said.

Sherlock laughed too.

They spent the rest of the flight discussing what they would do once they had checked into the hotel. Or rather, James discussed it. Sherlock was, once again, pondering what John could have been trying to tell him and why it had been so urgent.

The landing went smooth, but then they ended up waiting almost 45 minutes for their bags. James was fretting slightly, starting to seem a bit on edge. Sherlock couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with him. He tried holding his hand and even kissing him, but for once both failed completely to calm the shorter man.

Finally they had their bags and went through customs. The heat outside was beginning to be noticeable even in the air conditioned arrival terminal and Sherlock wished he had some more juice. Or just some water. He looked around as they walked towards the exit, but couldn't see any vending machines.

"Can… Can you walk a bit slower?" he asked James, feeling slightly faint.

James did not answer and it almost seemed as if he sped up.

Finally they were outside and stopped by the curb. Sherlock ran a hand over his eyes, trying to clear his head. "We… We should get a cab…" he said, his voice sounding oddly distant.

"That won't be necessary," James said, raising an arm and waving.

Sherlock frowned. If they didn't take a cab, how would they get to the hotel? Who was James waving at? Surely he didn't know anybody here.

But then a blue car, that was clearly not a cab, pulled up in front of them.

James opened the door to the back seat. "Get in… sweetheart," he said with an odd smirk.

Something was wrong here, but right now Sherlock desperately needed to sit down, so he got in, beginning to move over so James could follow him. But to his surprise the door was closed, and a moment later, James got into the passenger seat.

"What…?" Sherlock said, his vision going slightly blurry.

James did not even look at him but leaned closer to the driver. And kissed him.

"Hello, Tiger," he purred to the tall blond man behind the wheel.

"Hi, Kitten," the man replied and then turned to look at Sherlock. "And hi to you too… Thomas," he said with a wicked grin. "Boy, am I glad to see you."


End file.
